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LYING, 



ALL ITS BRANCHES. 



AMELIA OPIE. 



FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION 



BOSTON : 

PUBLISHED BY MT7NROE AND FRANCIS, NO. 128 \ 8. H. PARKER, 
NO. 164 ; L. C. BOWLES, NO. 94 ; RICHARDSON &. LOBD, NO. 
133 ; CUMMINGS, BILLIARD & CO. NO. 134 ; COTTONS &. BAR- 
NARD, NO. 184 ; CROCKER &. BBEWSTER, NO. 51 ', GATLORD & 
HATCH, NO. 34 J R.F &. C. WILLIAMS, N0.79 J AND HARRISON 
GRAY, NO. 72, WASHINGTON-STREET- 



1826. 



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TO 

Dr. ALDERSON of NORWICH. 



To thee, my beloved Father, I dedica- 
ted my first, and to thee I also dedicate 
my present, work ; — with the pleasing 
conviction that thou art disposed to form 
a favourable judgment of any production, 
however humble, which has a tendency 
to promote the moral and religious wel- 
fare of mankind. 

AMELIA OPIE. 



'-e-frv?-*- 




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PREFACE. 



I am aware that a preface must be short, if its au- 
thor aspires to have it read. 1 shall therefore content 
mysef with making a very few preliminary observa- 
tions, which I wish to be considered as apologies. 

My first apology is, for having throughout my book 
made use of the words lying and lies, instead of some 
gentler term, or some easy paraphrase, by which I 
might have avoided the risk of offending the delicacy 
of any of my readers. 
*' Our gr^eat satirist speaks pf a Dean who was a fa- 
vourite at the church where he officiated, because 

" He never mentioned hell to ears polite,—" 

and I fear that to " ears polite," my coarseness, in 
uniformly calling lying and lie by their real names, 
may sometimes be offensive. 

But, when writing a book against lying, I was oblig- 
ed to express my meaning in the manner most conso- 
nant to the strict truth ; nor could I employ any 
words with such propriety as those hallowed and sanc- 
tioned for use, on such an occasion, by the practice of 
inspired, and holy men of old. 

Moreover, I believe that those who accustom them- 
selves to call lying and lie by a softening appellation 
are in danger of weakening their aversion to the fault 
itself. 

My second apology is, for presuming to come for- 
1* 



VI PREFACE. 

ward, with such apparent boldness, as a didactic writ- 
er, and a teacher of truths, which I ought to believe 
that every one knows already, and better than I do. 

But I beg permission to deprecate the charge of 
presumption and self-conceit, by declaring that I pre- 
tend not to lay before my readers any new knowl- 
edge ; my only aim is to bring to their recollection 
knowledge which they already possess, but do not 
constantly recall and act upon. 

J am to them, and to my subject, what the picture 
cleaner is to the picture ; the restorer to observation 
of what is valuable, and not the artist who created it. 

In the ncct place, I wish to remind them that a 
weak hand is as able as a powerful one to hold a mir- 
ror, in which we may see any defects in our dress or 
person. 

In the last place, I venture to assert that there is not 
in my whole book a more common-place truth, than 
that kings are but men, and that monarchs, as well as 
their subjects, must surely die. 

Notwithstanding, Philip of Macedon was so con- 
scious of his liability to forget this awful truth, that he 
employed a monitor to follow him every day, repeat- 
ing in his ear, " Remember thou art but a man." 
And he who gave this salutary admonition neither 
possessed superiority of wisdom, nor pretended to 
possess it. 

All, therefore, that I require of my readers is to do 
me justice to believe that, in the following work, my 
pretensions have been as humble, and as confined, as 
those of the remembrancer of Philip op Macedon. 

AMELIA OPIE. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAP. I. 
Introduction. --_.---- 

CHAP. II. 

On the Active and Passive Lies of Vanity — The Stage 
Coach— Unexpected Discoveries. - 

CHAP. III. 
On the Lies of Flattery— The Turban. 

CHAP. IV- 
Lies of Fear— The Bank Note. 

CHAP. V. 

Lies falsely called Lies of Benevolence — A Tale of Pot- 
ted Sprats — An Authoress and her Auditors. 

CHAP. VI. 
Lies of Convenience — Projects Defeated. 

CHAP. VII. 

Lies of Interest — The Skreen. 

CHAP. VIII. 
Lies of First-Rate Malignity— The Orphan. 

CHAP. IX. 
Lies of Second-Rate Malignity — The Old Gentleman and 



the Young One, 

CHAP. X. 
Lies of Benevolence. 



VM CONTENTS. 

CHAP. X. Continued. 
Lies of Benevolence — Mistaken Kindness — Father and 
Son. 

CHAP. XI. 

Lies of Wantonness and Practical Liis. ... 

CHAP. XII. 
Our own Experienoe of the Painful Results of Lying. - 

CHAP. XIII. 
Lying the most common of all Vices. ... 

CHAP. XIV. 
Extracts from Lord Bacon, and others. - 

CHAP. XV. 
Observations on the Extracts from Hawkesworth and 
others. 

CHAP. XVI. 
Religion the only Baisis of Truth. .... 

CHAP XVII. 
The same subject continued. ..... 

Conclusion. - 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

OF 

LYING, 

IN ALL ITS BRANCHES. 

CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

What constitutes lying ? 

I answer the intention to deceive. 

If this be a correct definition, there must be 
passive as well as active lying ; and those who 
withhold the truth, or do not tell the whole truth, 
with an intention to deceive, are guilty of lying, as 
well as those who tell a direct or positive falsehood. 

Lies are many, and various in their nature and 
in their tendency, and may be arranged under their 
different names, thus : — 

Lies of Vanity. 

Lies of Flattery. 

Lies of Convenience. 

Lies of Interest. 

Lies of Fear. 

Lies of first-rate Malignity. 

Lies of second-rate Malignity. 

Lies, falsely called Lies of Benevolence. 

Lies of real Benevolence. 



10 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

Lies of mere Wantonness, proceeding from a 
depraved love of lying, or contempt for truth. 

There are others probably ; but I believe that 
this !ist contains all those which are of the most 
importance ; unless, indeed, we may add to it — 

Practical Lies ; that is, Lies acted, not spoken. 

I shall give an anecdote, or tale, in order to il- 
lustrate each sort of lie in its turn, or nearly so, lies 
for the sake of lying excepted ; for I should find 
it very difficult so to illustrate this the most despi- 
cable species of falsehood. 



CHAPTER II. 

ON THE ACTIVE AND PASSIVE LIES OF VANITY. 

I shall begin my observations by defining what 
I mean by the Lie of Vanity, both in its active and 
passive nature ; these lies being undoubtedly the 
most common, because vanity is one of the most 
powerful springs of human action, and is usually 
the besetting sin of every one. Suppose, that, in 
order to give myself consequence, I were to assert 
that I was actually acquainted with certain great 
and distinguished personages whom I had merely 
met in fashionable society. Suppose also, I were 
to say that I was at such a place, and such an as- 
sembly on such a night, without adding, that I was 
there, not as an invited guest, but only because a 
benefit concert was held at these places for which 
] had tickets. — These would both be lies of vanity ; 



,€>N LIES OF VANITY. 11 

but the one would be an active, the other a pas- 
sive, lie. 

In the first I should assert a direct falsehood, in 
the other I should withhold part of the truth ; but 
both would be lies, because, in both, my intention 
was to deceive.* 

But though we are frequently tempted to be guil- 
ty of the active lies of vanity, our temptations to 
its passive lies are more frequent still ; nor can the 
sincere lovers of truth be too much on their guard 
against this constantly recurring danger. The fol- 
lowing instances will explain what I mean by this 
observation. 

If I assert that my motive for a particular action 
was virtuous, when I know that it was worldly and 
selfish, I am guilty of an active, or direct, lie. But 
I am equally guilty of falsehood, if, while I hear 
my actions or forbearances praised, and imputed to 
decidedly worthy motives, when I am conscious 
that they sprung from unworthy or unimportant 
ones, I listen with silent complacency, and do not 
positively disclaim my right to commendation ; 
only, in the one case I lie directly, in the other 
indirectly : the lie is active in the one, and passive 
in the other. And are we not all of us conscious 
of having sometimes accepted incense to our vani- 
ty, which we knew that we did not deserve ? 

Men have been known to boast of attention, and 
even of avowals of serious love from women, and 
women from men, which, in point of fact, they 
never received, and therein have been guilty of pos- 



* This passive lie is a very frequent one in certain circles in 
London ; as many ladies and g-entlemen there purchase tickets 
for benefit concerts held at great houses, in order that they 
may be able to say, " 1 was at Lady such a one's on such a 
night." 



12 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

itive falsehood ; but they who, without any contra- 
diction on their own part, allow their friends and 
flatterers to insinuate that they have been, or are, 
objects of love and admiration to those who never 
professed either, are as much guilty of deception as 
the utterersofthe above-mentioned assertion. Still, 
it is certain, that many, who would shrink with 
moral disgust from committing the latter species of 
falsehood, are apt to remain silent, when their van- 
ity is gratified, without any overt act of deceit on 
their part, and are contented to let the flattering be- 
lief remain uncontradicted. Yet the turpitude is, 
in my opinion, at least, nearly equal, if my defini- 
tion of lying be correct ; namely, the intention to 
deceive. 

This disingenuous passiveness, this deceitful si- 
lence, belongs to that extensive and common 
species of falsehood, withholding the truth. 

But this tolerated sin, denominated white lying, 
is a sin which I believe that some persons commit, 
not only without being conscious that it is a sin, 
but, frequently, with a belief that, to do it readily, 
and without confusion, is often a merit, and always 
a proof of ability. '% Still more frequently, they do 
it unconsciously, perhaps, from the force of habit ; 
and, like Monsieur Jourdain, " the Bourgeois gen- 
til-homme," who found out that he had talked 
prose all his life without knowing it, these persons 
utter lie upon lie, without knowing that what they 
utter deserves to be considered as falsehood. 

I am myself convinced, that a passive lie is equal- 
ly as irreconcilable to moral principles as an active 
one ; but I am well aware that most persons are of 
a different opinion. Yet, I would say to those who 
thus differ from me, if you allow yourselves to vio- 
late truth — that is, to deceive, for any purpose what- 



ON LIES OF VANITY. 13 

ever — who can say where this sort of self-indul- 
gence will submit to be bounded ? Can you be 
sure that you will not, when strongly tempted, utter 
what is equally false, in order to benefit yourself at 
the expense of a fellow-creature ? 

All mortals are, at times, accessible to tempta- 
tion ; but, when we are not exposed to it, we dwell 
with* complacency on our means of resisting it, on 
our principles, and our tried and experienced self- 
denial : but, as the life-boat, and the safety-gun, 
which succeeded in all that they were made to do 
while the sea was calm, and the winds still, have 
been known to fail when the vessel was tost on a 
tempestuous ocean ; so those who may successful- 
ly oppose principle to temptation when the tempest 
of the passions is not awakened within their bosoms, 
may sometimes be overwhelmed by its power when 
it meets them in all its awful energy and unexpect- 
ed violence. 

But in every warfare against human corruption, ha- 
bitual resistance to little temptations is,next to prayer, 
the most efficacious aid. He who is to be trained 
for public exhibitions of feats of strength, is made 
to carry small weights at first, which are daily in- 
creased in heaviness, till, at last, he is almost un- 
consciously able to bear, with ease, the greatest 
weight possible to be borne by man. In like man- 
ner, those who resist the daily temptation to tell 
what are apparently trivial and innocent lies, will 
be better able to withstand allurements to serious 
and important deviations from truth, and be more 
fortified in the hour of more severe temptation 
against every species of dereliction from integrity. 

The active lies of vanity are so numerous, but, 
at the same time, are so like each other, that it 
2 



14 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

were useless, as well as endless, to attempt to 
enumerate them. I shall therefore mention one of 
them only, before I proceed to my tale on the ac- 
tive lie of vanity, and that is the most common 
of all ; namely, the violation of truth which persons 
indulge in relative to their age ; an error so gener- 
ally committed, especially by the unmarried of both 
sexes, that few persons can expect to be believed 
when declaring their age at an advanced period of 
life. So common, and therefore so little disreputa- 
ble, is this species of lie considered to be, that a 
sensible friend of mine said to me the other day, 
when I asked him the age of the lady whom he was 
going to marry, "She tells me she is five-and-twen- 
ty ; I therefore conclude that she is five-and-thir- 
ty." This was undoubtedly spoken in joke ; still 
it was an evidence of the toleration generally grant- 
ed on this point. 

But though it is possible that my friend believed 
the lady to be a year or two older than she owned 
herself to be, and thought a deviation from truth on 
this subject was of no consequence, I am very sure 
that he would not have ventured to marry a wo- 
man whom he suspected of lying on any other oc- 
casion. This however is a lie which does not ex- 
pose the utterer to severe animadversion, and for 
this reason probably, that all mankind are so averse 
to be thought old, that the wish to be considered 
younger than the truth warrants meet with compla- 
cent sympathy and indulgence, even when years 
are notoriously annihilated at the impulse of vanity. 
I give the following story in illustration of the 
active lie of vanity. 



THE ST;AGE COACH. 15 



THE STAGE COACH. 

Amongst those whom great successes in trade had 
raised to considerable opulence in their native city, 
was a family by the name of Burford ; and the eldest 
brother, when he was the only surviving partner of 
that name in the firm, was not only able to indulge 
himself in the luxuries of a carriage, country-house, 
garden, hot-houses, and all the privileges which 
wealth bestows, but could also lay by money enough 
to provide amply for his children. 

His only daughter had been adopted, when very 
young, by her paternal grandmother, whose fortune 
was employed in her son's trade, and who could 
well afford to take on herself all the expences of 
Annabel's education. But it was with painful re- 
luctance that Annabel's excellent mother consented 
to resign her child to another's care ; nor could she 
be prevailed upon to do so, till Burford, who be- 
lieved that his widowed parent, would sink under 
the loss of her husband, unless Annabel was permit- 
ted to reside with her, commanded her to yield her 
maternal rights in pity to this beloved sufferer. She 
could therefore presume to refuse no longer ; — but 
she yielded with a mental conflict only too prophet- 
ic of the mischief to which she exposed her child's 
mind and character, by this enforced surrender of 
a mother's duties. 

The grandmother was a thoughtless woman of 
this world — the mother, a pious, reflecting being, 
continually preparing herself for the world To come. 
With the latter, Annabel would have acquired prin - 



16 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ciples — with the former, she could only learn ac- 
complishments ; and that weakly judging person 
encouraged her in habits of mind and character 
which would have filled both her father and mother 
with pain and apprehension. 

Vanity was her ruling passion ; and this her 
grandmother fostered by every means in her power. 
She gave her elegant dresses, and had her taught 
showy accomplishments. She delighted to hear 
her speak of herself, and boast of the compliments 
paid her on her beauty and her talents. She was 
even weak enough to admire the skilful falsehood 
with which she embellished every thing which she 
narrated : but this vicious propensity the old lady 
considered only as a proof of a lively fancy ; and 
she congratulated herself on the consciousness how 
much more agreeable her fluent and inventive An- 
nabel was, than the matter-of-fact girls with whom 
she associated. But while Annabel and her grand- 
mother were on a visit at Burford's country-house, 
and while the parents were beholding with sorrow 
the conceit and flippancy of their only daughter, 
they were plunged at once into comparative pover- 
ty, by the ruin of some of Burford's correspondents 
abroad, and by the fraudulent conduct of a friend in 
whom he had trusted. In a few short weeks, there- 
fore, the ruined grandmother and her adopted child, 
together with the parents and their boys, were for- 
ced to seek an asylum in the heart of Wales, and 
live on the slender marriage settlement of Burford's 
amiable wife. For her every one felt, as it was 
thought that she had always discouraged that ex-? 
pensive style of living which had exposed her hus- 
band to envy, and its concomitant detractions, 
amongst those whose increase in wealth had not 
kept pace with his own. He had also carried his 



THE STAGE COACH. i? 

ambition so far, that he had even aspired to repre- 
sent his native city in parliament ; and, as he was 
a violent politician, some of the opposite party not 
only rejoiced in his downfall, but were ready to be- 
lieve and to propagate that he had made a fraudu- 
lent bankruptcy in concert with his friend who had 
absconded, and that he had secured or conveyed 
away from his creditors money to a considerable 
amount. But the tale of calumny, which has no 
foundation in truth, cannot long retain its power to 
injure ; and, in process of time, the feelings of the 
creditors in general were so completely changed 
towards Burford, that some of them who had been 
most decided against signing his certificate, were at 
length brought to confess that it was a matter for re- 
consideration. Therefore, when a distinguished 
friend of his father's, who had been strongly preju- 
diced against him at first, repented of his unjust cre- 
dulity, and, in order to make him amends, offered 
him a share in his own business, all the creditors, 
except two of the principal ones, became willing to 
sign the certificate. Perhaps there is nothing so 
difficult to remove from some minds as suspicions 
of a derogatory nature ; and the creditors in ques- 
tion were envious, worldly men, who piqued them- 
selves on their shrewdness, could not brook the 
idea of being overreached, and were, perhaps, not 
sorry that he whose prosperity had excited their 
jealousy, should now be humbled before them as a 
dependant and a suppliant. However, even they 
began to be tired at length of holding out against the 
opinion of so many ; and Burford had the comfort 
of being informed, after he had been some months 
in Wales, that matters were in train to enable him 
2* 



18 ILLL'STKATIONS (*F LYING. 

to get into business again, with restored credit and 
renewed prospects. 

" Then, who knows, Anna," said he to his wife, 
" but that in a few years I shall be able, by indus- 
try and economy, to pay all that I owe, both princi- 
pal and interest ? for, till I have done so, I shall 
not be really happy ; and then poverty will he rob- 
bed of its sting." — " Not only so," she replied, — 
" we could never have given our children a better 
inheritance than this proof of their father's strict in- 
tegrity ; and, surely, my dear husband, a blessing 
will attend thy labours aud intentions." — " I humbly 
trust that it will." — "Yes," she continued ; "our 
change of fortune has humbled our pride of heart, 
and the cry of our contrition and humility has not 
ascended in vain." — " Our pride of heart !" re- 
plied Burford, tenderly embracing her ; " it was 1, 
I alone, who deserved chastisement, and I cannot 
bear to hear thee blame thyself ; but it is like thee, 
Anna, — thou art ever kind, ever generous ; how- 
ever, as I like to be obliged to thee, I am contented 
that thou shouldst talk of our pride and our chas- 
tisement." While these hopes were uppermost in 
the minds of this amiable couple, and were cheering 
the weak mind of Burford's mother, which, as it 
had been foolishly elated by prosperity, was now 
as improperly depressed by adversity, Annabel had 
been passing several months at the house of a 
school-fellow some miles from her father's dwelling. 
The vain girl had felt the deepest mortification at 
this blight to her worldly prospects, and bitterly la- 
mented being no longer able to talk of her grand- 
mother's villa and carriages, and her father's hot- 
houses and grounds ; nor could she help repining 
at the loss of those indulgences to which she had 
been accustomed. She was therefore delighted to 
leave home on a visit, and very sorry when unex- 



THE STAGE COACH. 19 

pected circumstances in her friend's family obliged 
her to return sooner than she intended. She was 
compelled also to return by herself in a public 
coach,— a great mortification to her still existing 
pride ; but she had now no pretensions to travel 
otherwise, and found it necessary to submit to cir- 
cumstances. — In the coach were one young man 
and two elderly ones ; and her companions seemed 
so willing to pay her attention, and make her jour- 
ney pleasant to her, that Annabel, who always be- 
lieved herself an object of admiration, was soon con- 
vinced that she had made a conquest of the youth, 
and that the others thought her a very sweet crea- 
ture. She, therefore, gave way to all her loqua- 
cious vivacity ; she hummed tunes in order to show 
that she could sing ; she took out her pencil and 
sketched wherever they stopped to change horses, 
and talked of her own boudoir, her own maid, and 
all the past glories of her state, as if they still exist- 
ed. In short, she tried to impress her companions 
with a high idea of her consequence, and as if un- 
usual and unexpected circumstances had led her to 
travel incog., while she put in force all her attrac- 
tions against their poor condemned hearts. What 
an odious thing is a coquette of sixteen ! and such 
was Annabel Burford. Certain it is, that she be- 
came an object of great attention to the gentlemen 
with her, but of admiration, probably, to the young 
man alone, who, in her youthful beauty, might pos- 
sibly overlook her obvious defects. During the 
journey, one of the elderly gentlemen opened a bas- 
ket which stood near him, containing some fine hot- 
house grapes and flowers. " There, young lady," 
said he to her, " did you ever see such fruit as this 
before ?" " Oh dear, yes, in my papa's grapery." 
n Indeed ! but did you ever see such fine flowers ?" 



20 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" Oh dear,yes, in papa's succession-houses. There 
is nothing, I assure you, of that sort," she added, 
drawing up her head with a look of ineffable con- 
ceit, " that I am not accustomed to :" — con- 
descending, however, at the same time, to eat some 
of the grapes, and accept some of the flowers. 

It was natural that her companions should now 
be very desirous of finding out what princess in dis- 
gnise was deigning to travel in a manner so un- 
worthy of her ; and when they stopped within a few 
miles of her home, one of the gentlemen, having 
discovered that she was known to a passenger on 
the top of the coach, who was about to leave it, got 
out, and privately asked him who she was. " Bur- 
ford ! Burford !" cried he, when he heard the an- 
swer ; " what ! the daughter of Burford the bank- 
rupt ?" — " Yes, the same." — With a frowning brow 
he re-entered the coach, and, when seated, whis- 
pered the old gentleman next him ; and both of 
them, having exchanged glances of sarcastic and in- 
dignant meaning, looked at Annabel with great sig- 
nificance. Nor was it long before she observed a 
marked change in their manner towards her. 
They answered her with abruptness, and even with 
reluctance ; till, at length, the one who had interro- 
gated her acquaintance on the coach said, in a sar- 
castic tone, " I conclude that you were speaking 
just now, young lady, of the fine things which were 
once yours. You have no graperies and succession- 
houses now, I take it." — " Dear me ! why not, 
sir . ? " replied the conscious girl, in a trembling 
voice." — " Why not t Why, excuse my freedom, 
but are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the 
bankrupt ? M Never was child more tempted to 
deny her parentage than Annabel was ; but, though 
with great reluctance, she faltered out, il Yes ; and 



THE STAGE COACH. 21 

to be sure, my father was once unfortunate ; but''" 
— here she looked at her young and opposite neigh- 
bour ; and, seeing that his look of admiring respect 
was exchanged for one of ill-suppressed laughter, 
she felt irresistibly urged to add, " But we are 
very well off now, I assure you ; and our present 
residence is so pretty ! Such a sweet garden ! and 
such a charming hot-house !" 

" Indeed !" returned the old man, with a signifi- 
cant nod to his friend ; " well, then, let your papa 
take care he does not make his house too hot to hold 
him, and that another house be not added to his list of 
residences." Here he laughed heartily at his own 
wit, and was echoed by his companion. " But, 
pray, how long has he been thus again favoured by 
fortune ?" — " Oh dear ! I cannot say ; but, for 
some time ; and I assure you our style of living is 
—very complete."-—" I do not doubt it ; for chil- 
dren and fools speak truth, says the proverb ; and 
sometimes," added he in a low voice, " the child 
and the fool are the same person." — "(So, so,''' he 
muttered aside to the other traveller ; " gardens ! 
hot-house ! carriage ! swindling, specious rascal !" 
But Annabel heard only the first part of the sen- 
tence : and being quite satisfied that she had recov- 
ered all her consequence in the eyes of her young 
beau by two or three white lies, as she termed them 
(flights of fancy, in which she was apt to indulge.) 
she resumed her attack on his heart, and continued 
to converse, in her most seducing manner, till the 
coach stopped, according to her desire, at a cot- 
tage by the road-side, where, as she said, her fath- 
er's groom was to meet her, and take her portman- 
teau. The truth was, that she did not choose to 
be set down at her own humble home, which was 
at the further end of the village, because it would 



22 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN6. 

not only tell the tale of her fallen fortunes, but 
would prove the falsehood of what she had been 
asserting. When the coach stopped, she exclaim- 
ed, with well acted surprise, " Dear me ! how 
strange that the servant is not waiting for me ! But, 
it does not signify ; I can stop here till he comes." 
She then left the coach, scarcely greeted by her 
elderly companions, but followed, as she fancied, 
by looks of love from the youth, who handed her out, 
and expressed his great regret at parting with her. 
The parents, meanwhile, were eagerly expecting 
her return ; for though the obvious defects in her 
character gave them excessive pain, and they were 
resolved to leave no measures untried in order to 
eradicate them, they had missed her amusing vivac- 
ity ; and even their low and confined dwelling was 
rendered cheerful, when, with her sweet and bril- 
liant tones, she went carolling about the house. 
Besides, she was coming, for the first time, alone 
and unexpected ; and, as the coach was later than 
usual, the anxious tenderness of the parental heart 
was worked up to a high pitch of feeling, and they 
were even beginning to share the fantastic fears of 
the impatient grandmother, when they saw the coach 
stop at a distant turn of the road, and soon after be- 
held Annabel coming towards them ; who was 
fondly clasped to those affectionate bosoms, for 
which her unprincipled falsehoods, born of the most 
contemptible vanity, had prepared fresh trials and 
fresh injuries : for her elderly companions were 
her father's principal and relentless creditors, who 
had been down to Wynstaye on business, and were 
returning thence, to London ; intending when they 
arrived there to assure Sir James Alberry, — - 
that friend of Burford's father, who resided in Lon- 
don, and wished to take him into partnership, — that 



THE STAGE COACH. 23 

they were no longer averse to sign his certificate ; 
being at length convinced he was a calumniated 
man. But now all their suspicions were renewed 
and confirmed ; since it was easier for them to be- 
lieve that Burford was still the villain which they al- 
ways thought him, than that so young a girl should 
have told so many falsehoods at the mere impulse 
of vanity. They therefore became more inveter- 
ate against her poor father than ever ; and, though 
their first visit to the metropolis was to the gentle- 
man in question, it was now impelled by a wish to 
injure, not to serve, him. How differently would 
they have felt, had the vain and false Annabel al- 
lowed the coach to set her down at her father's low- 
ly door ! and had they beheld the interior arrange- 
ment of his house and family ! Had they seen neat- 
ness and order giving attraction to cheap and ordi- 
nary furniture ; had they beheld the simple meal 
spread out to welcome the wanderer home, and the 
Bible and Prayerbook ready for the evening ser- 
vice, which was deferred till it could be shared 
again with her whose return would add fervour to 
the devotion of that worshipping family, and would 
call forth additional expressions of thanksgiving ! 

The dwelling of Burford was that of a man im- 
proved by trials past ; — of one who looked forward 
with thankfulness and hope to the renewed posses- 
sion of a competence, in the belief that he should 
now be able to make a wiser and holier use of it 
than he had done before. His wife had needed 
no such lesson ; though, in the humility of her 
heart, she thought otherwise ; and she had helped 
her husband to impress on the yielding minds of 
her boys, who (happier than their sister) had never 
left her, that a season of worldly humiliation is more 
safe and blessed than one of worldly prosperity — 
while their Welch cottage and wild mountain gar- 



24 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

den had been converted, by her resources and her 
example, into a scene of such rural industry and 
innocent amusement, that they could no longer re- 
gret the splendid house and grounds which they 
had been obliged to resign. The grandmother, in- 
deed, had never ceased to mourn and to murmur ; 
and, to her, the hope of seeing a return of brighter 
days, by means of a new partnership, was beyond 
measure delightful. But she was doomed to be 
disappointed, through those errors in the child of 
her adoption which she had at least encouraged, if 
she had not occasioned. 

It was with even clamorous delight, that Anna- 
bel, after this absence of a few months, was wel- 
comed by her brothers : the parents 1 welcome was 
of a quieter, deeper nature ; while the grandmo- 
ther's first solicitude was to ascertain how she look- 
ed ; and having convinced herself that she was re- 
turned handsomer than ever, her joy was as loud 
as that of the boys. — " Do come hither, Bell," said 
one of her brothers — " we have so much to show 
you ! The old cat has such nice kittens !" — 
" Yes 5 and my rabbits have all young ones !" cried 
another. — " And I and mamma," cried the third 
boy, " have put large stones into the bed of the 
mountain rill ; so now it makes such a nice noise 
as it flows over them ! Do come, Bell ; do, pray, 
come with us !" — But the evening duties were first 
to be performed ; and performed they were, with 
more than usual solemnity : but after them Anna- 
bel had to eat her supper ; and she was so engross- 
ed in relating her adventures in the coach, and with 
describing the attentions of her companions, that 
her poor brothers were not attended to. In vain 
did her mother say* " Do, Annabel, go with your 
brothers \ n and add, " Go now ; for it is near their 



THE STAGE COACH. 25 

bedtime !" (She was too fond of hearing herself 
talk, and of her grandmother's flatteries, to be will- 
ing to leave the room ; and though her mother was 
disappointed at her selfishness, she could not bear to 
chide her on the first night of her return. 

(When Annabel was alone with her grandmother, 
she ventured to communicate to her what a fearful 
consciousness of not having done right had led her 
to conceal from her parents ; and, after relating all 
that had passed relative to the fruit and flowers, 
she repeated the cruel question of the old man, 
" Are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the 
bankrupt ?" and owned what her reply was : on 
which her grandmother exclaimed, with great emo- 
tion, " (Unthinking girl ! you know not what in- 
jury you may have done your father !" She then 
asked for a particular description of the persons of 
the old men, saying, " Well, well, it cannot be 
helped now — I may be mistaken ; but be sure not 
to tell your mother what youvhave told me." 

For some days after Annabel's return, all went 
on well ; and their domestic felicity would have 
been so complete, that Burford and his wife would 
have much disliked any idea of change, had their 
income been sufficient to give their boys good edu- 
cation ; but, as it was only just sufficient for their 
maintenance, they looked forward with anxious ex- 
pectation to the arrival of a summons to London, 
and to their expected residence there. Still the 
idea of leaving their present abode was really pain- 
ful to all, save Annabel and her grandmother. 
They thought the rest of the family devoid of pro- 
per spirit, and declared that living in Wales was not 
living at all. 

But a stop was now put to eager anticipations 
3 



26* ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

on the one hand, or of tender regrets on the other ; 
for, while Burford was expecting daily to receive 
remittances from Sir James Alberry, to enable him 
to transport himself and his family to the metropo- 
lis, that gentleman wrote to him as follows : — 

" Sir, 
il All connection between us is for ever at end ; 
and I have given the share in my business, which 
was intended for you, to the worthy man who has 
so long solicited it. I thought that I had done you 
injustice, sir \ I wished therefore to make you 
amends. But I find you are what you are repre- 
sented to be, a fraudulent bankrupt ; and your cer- 
tificate now will never he signed. Should you won- 
der what has occasioned this change in my feelings 
and proceedings, I am at liberty to inform you that 
your daughter travelled in a stage coach, a few 
days ago, with your two principal creditors ; and I 
am desired to add, that children and fools speak 
truth. 

" James Alberry.'' 

When Burford had finished reading this letter. 
it fell from his grasp, and, clasping his hands con- 
vulsively together, he exclaimed, " Ruined and dis- 
graced for ever !" then rushed into his own cham- 
ber. His terrified wife followed him with the un- 
read letter in her hand, looking the enquiries which 
she could not utter. — -" Read that," he replied, 
" and see that Sir James Alberry deems me a vil- 
lain !" She did read, and with a shaking frame ; 
but it was not the false accusation of her husband, 
nor the loss of the expected partnership, that thus 
•agitated her firm nerves, and firmer mind ; it was 
the painful conviction, that Annabel, by some means 
unknown to her, had been the cause of this mis- 



THE STAGE COACH. S* 

chief to her father ; — a conviction which consider- 
ably increased Bur ford's agony, when she pointed 
out the passage in Sir James's letter alluding to 
Annabel, who was immediately summoned, and de- 
sired to explain Sir James's mysterious meaning. 
" Dear me ! papa," cried she, changing colour, 
" I am sure, if I had thought, — I am sure I could 
not think, — nasty, ill-natured old man ! I am sure 
I only said — ." " But what did you say ?" cried 
her agitated father. — " I can explain all," said his 
mother, who had entered uncalled for, and read the 
letter. She then repeated what Annabel had told, 
but softening it as much as she could ; — however, 
she told enough to show the agonizing parents that 
their child was not only the cause of disappointment 
and disgrace to them, but a mean, vain-glorious, 
and despicable liar ! " The only amends which you 
can now make us," said Burford, " is to tell the 
whole truth, unhappy child ! and then we must see 
what can be done ; for my reputation mut be clear- 
ed, even at the painful expense of exposing you." 
Nor was it long before the mortified Annabel, with 
a heart awakened to contrition by her mother's gen- 
tle reproofs, and the tender teachings of a mother's 
love, made an ample confession of all that had pass- 
ed in the stage coach ; on hearing which, Burford 
instantly resolved to .set off for London. But how 
was he to get thither ? He had no money ; as he 
had recently been obliged to pay some debts of his 
still thoughtless and extravagant mother ; nor could 
he bear to borrow of his neighbour what he was 
afraid he might be for some time unable to return. 
" Cruel, unprincipled girl !" cried he, as he paced 
their little room in agony ; " see to what misery 
thou hast reduced thy father ! However, I must go 
to London immediately, though it be on foot." — 



28 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

"Well, really, I don't see any very great harm in what 
the poor child did," cried his mother, distressed at 
seeing Annabel's tears. " It was very trying to her 
to be reproached with her father's bankruptcy and 
her fallen fortunes ; and it was very natural for her 
to say what she did." — " Natural !" exclaimed the 
indignant mother ; " natural for my child to utter 
falsehood on falsehood, and at the instigation 
of a mean vanity ! Natural for my child to shrink 
from the avowal of poverty, which was unattended 
w T ith disgrace ! Oh ! make us not more wretched 
than we were before, by trying to lessen Annabel's 
faults in her own eyes ! Our only comfort is the 
hope that she is ashamed of herself." — " But neith- 
er her shame nor penitence," cried Burford, " will 
give me the quickest means of repairing the effects 
of her error. However, as I cannot ride, I must 
walk, to London ;" while his wife, alarmed at ob- 
serving the dew of weakness which stood upon his 
brow, and the faint flush which overspread his 
cheek, exclaimed, " But will not writing to Sir 
James be sufficient r" — " No. My appearance 
will corroborate my assurances too well. The only 
writing necessary will be a detail from Annabel ol 
all that passed in the coach, and a confession of her 
fault." — " What ! exact from your child such a 
disgraceful avowal, William !" cried the angry 
grandmother. — " Yes ; for it is a punishment due 
to her transgression ; and she may think herself 
happy if its consequences end here." — " Here's a 
fuss, indeed, about a little harmless puffing and 
white lying !" — " Harmless !" replied Burford, in 
tone of indignation, while his wife exclaimed, in the 
agony of a wounded spirit, " Oh ! mother, mother ! 
do not make us deplore, more than we already do, 
that fatal hour when we consented to surrender our 



THE STAGE COACH. 29 

dearest duties at tho call of compassion for your 
sorrows, and entrusted the care of our child's pre- 
cious soul to your erroneous tenderness ! But, I 
trust that Annabel deeply feels her sinfulness, and 
that the effects of a mistaken education may have 
been counteracted in time." 

The next day, having procured the necessary 
document from Annabel, Burford set off on his 
journey, intending to travel occasionally on the tops 
of coaches, being well aware that he was not in a 
state of health to walk the whole way. 

In the meanwhile, Sir James Alberry, the Lon- 
don merchant, to whom poor Burford w T as then 
pursuing his long and difficult journey, was begin- 
ning to suspect that he had actedly hastily ; and, 
perhaps, unjustly. He had written his distressing 
letter in the moments of his first indignation, on 
hearing the statement of the two creditors ; and he 
had moreover written it under their dictation ; — 
and, as the person who had long wished to be ad- 
mitted into partnership with him happened to call 
at the same time, and had taken advantage of Bur- 
ford's supposed delinquency, he had, without fur- 
ther hesitation, granted his request. But as Sir 
James, though a rash, was a kind-hearted, man, 
when his angry feelings had subsided, the rebound 
of them was in favour of the poor accused ; and he 
reproached himself for having condemned and pun- 
ished a supposed culprit, before he was even heard 
in his defence. Therefore, having invited Bur- 
ford's accusers to return to dinner, he dismissed 
them as soon as he could, and went in search of 
his wife, wishing, but not expecting, his hasty pro- 
ceeding to receive the approbation of her candid 
spirit and discriminating judgment. " What is all 



30 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

this ?" cried Lady Alberry,, when he had done 
speaking. " Is it possible that, on the evidence of 
these two men, who have shown themselves invet- 
erate enemies of the poor bankrupt, you have brok- 
en your promise to him, and pledged it to another ?" 
- — " Yes ; and my letter to Burford is gone. 1 
wish I had shown it to you before it went ; but, 
surely Burford's child could not have told them 
falsehoods." — " That depends on her education.' 7 
— " True, Jane ; and she was brought up, you 
know, by that paragon, her mother, who cannot do 
wrong." — " No ; she was brought up by that weak 
woman, her grandmother, who is not likely, I fear, 
ever to do right. Had her pious mother educated 
her, I should have been sure that Annabel Burford 
could not have told a lie. However, I shall see, 
and interrogate the accusers. In the meanwhile 
I must regret your excessive precipitancy." 

As Lady Alberry was a woman who scrupulous- 
ly performed all her religious and moral duties, she 
was, consequently, always observant of that holy 
command, " not to take up a reproach against her 
neighbour." She was, therefore, very unwilling to 
believe the truth of this charge against Burford ; 
and thought that it was more likely an ill-educa- 
ted girl should tell a falsehood, which had. also, per- 
haps, been magnified by involuntary exaggeration, 
than that the husband of such a woman as Anna 
Burford should be the delinquent which his old 
creditors described him to be. For she had in 
former days, been thrown into society with Bur- 
ford's wife, and had felt attracted towards her by 
the strongest of all sympathies, that of entire unity 
on those subjects most connected with our welfare 
here, and hereafter ; those sympathies which can 
convert strangers into friends, and draw them to- 



THE STAGE COACH. 31 

gether in the enduring ties of pure, Christian love. 
; ' No, no," said she to herself ; " the beloved hus- 
band of such a woman cannot be a villain :" and 
she awaited, with benevolent impatience, the arri- 
val of her expected guests. 

The}' came, accompanied by Charles Danvers, 
Annabel's young fellow-traveller, who was nephew 
to one of them ; and Lady Alberry lost no time in 
drawing from them an exact detail of all that had 
passed. " And this girl, you say, was a forward, 
conceited, set-up being, full of herself and her ac- 
complishments ; in short, the creature of vanity." 
— " Yes," replied one of the old men, " it was 
quite a comedy to look at her and hear her !" — 
" But what says my young friend ? w — " The same. 
She is very pretty ; but a model of affectation, 
boasting, and vanity, Now she was hanging her 
head on one side — then looking languishingly with 
her eyes ; — and when my uncle, coarsely, as I 
thought, talked of her father as a bankrupt, her ex- 
pression of angry mortification was so ludicrous, 
that I could scarcely help laughing. Nay, I do 
assure you," he continued, " that had we been left 
alone a few minutes, I should have been made the 
confidant of her love-affairs ; for she sighed deep- 
ly once, and asked me, with an affected lisp, if I 
did not think it a dangerous thing to have a too sus- 
ceptible heart ?" As he said this, after the man- 
ner of Annabel, both the old men exclaimed, " Ad- 
mirable ! that is she to the life ! 1 think that I see 
her and hear her !" — " But, I dare say," said La- 
dy Alberry gravely, " that you paid her compli- 
ments, and pretended to admire her notwithstand- 
ing." — " I own it ; for how could I refuse the in- 
cense which every look and gesture demanded ?" 
— " A principle of truth, young man ! would have 



32 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

enabled you to do it. What a fine lesson it would 
be, for poor flattered women, if we could know how 
meanly men think of us, even when they flatter us 
the most." — " But, dear Lady Alberry, this girl 
seemed to me a mere child ; a coquette of the 
nursery : still, had she been older, her evident 
vanity would have secured me against her beauty." 
— " You are mistaken, Charles ; this child is al- 
most seventeen. But now, gentlemen, as just men, 
I appeal to you all, whether it is not more likely that 
this vainglorious girl told lies, than that her father, 
the husband of one of the best of women, should be 
guilty of the grossest dishonesty ?" — " I must con- 
fess, Jane, that you have convinced me," said Sir 
James ; but the two creditors only frowned, and 
spoke not. " But consider," said this amiable ad- 
vocate ; " if the girl's habitation was so beautiful, 
was it not inconsistent with her boasting propensi- 
ties that the should not choose to be set down at 
it ? And if her father still had carriages and ser- 
vants, would they not have been sent to meet her ? 
And if he were really rich, would she have been 
allowed to travel alone in a stage coach ?— Impos- 
sible ; and I conjure you to suspend your severe 
judgment of an unfortunate man, till you have sent 
some one to see how he really lives." 

" I am forced to return to Wynstaye to-morrow," 
growled out Charles's uncle ; " therefore, suppose 
I go myself." — " We had fixed to go into Wales 
ourselves next week," replied Lady Alberry, u on 
a visit to a dear friend who lives not far from Wyn- 
staye. Therefore, what say you, Sir James ? Had 
we not better go with our friend ? For if you have 
done poor Burford injustice, the sooner you make 
him reparation, and in person, the better." To 
this proposal Sir James gladly assented ; and they 



THE STAGE COACH. 33 

set off for Wales the next day, accompanied by the 
uncle and the nephew. 

As Lady Alberry was going to her chamber, on 
the second night of their journey, she was startled 
by the sound of deep groans, and a sort of delirious 
raving, from a half-open door. " Surely," said 
she to the landlady, who was conducting her, 
" there is some one very ill in that room." — " Oh 
dear ! yes, my lady ; a poor man who was picked 
up on the road yesterday. He had walked all the 
way from the heart of Wales, till he was so tired, 
he got on a coach ; and he supposes that, from 
weakness, he fell off in the night ; and not being 
missed, he lay till he was found and brought hith- 
er." — " Has any medical man seen him ?" — " Not 
yet ; for our surgeon lives a good way off ; and, as 
he had his senses when he first came, we hoped he 
was not much hurt. He was able to tell us that he 
only wanted a garret, as he was very poor ; and 
yet, my lady, he looks and speaks so like a gentle- 
man !" — " Poor creature ! he must be attended to, 
and a medical man sent for directly, as he is cer- 
tainly not sensible now." — " Hark ! he is raving 
again, and all about his wife, and I cannot tell 
what." — " I should like to see him," said Lady 
Alberry, whose heart always yearned towards the 
afflicted ; " and I think that I am myself no bad 
doctor." Accordingly, she entered the room just 
as the sick man exclaimed, in his delirium, "Cruel 
Sir James ! I a fraudulent .... Oh ! my dear- 
est Anna !".... and Lady Alberry recognized, 
in the poor raving being before her, the calumni- 
ated Burford ! " I know him !" she cried, burst- 
ing into tears ; " we will be answerable for all ex- 
penses." She then went in search of Sir James ; 
and having prepared him as tenderly as she could 



4*4 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

for the painful scene which awaited him, she led 
him to the bedside of the unconscious invalid ; — 
then, while Sir James, shocked and distressed be- 
yond measure, interrogated the landlady, Lady Al- 
berry examined the nearly-threadbare coat of the 
supposed rich man, which lay on the bed, and 
searched for the slenderly-filled purse, of which 
he had himself spoken. She found there Sir 
James's letter, which bad, she doubted not, occa- 
sioned his journey and his illness ; and which, 
therefore, in an agony of repentant feeling, her 
husband tore into atoms. In the same pocket he 
found Annabel's confession ; and when they left the 
chamber, having vainly waited in hopes of being 
recognized by the poor invalid, they returned to 
their fellow-travellers, carrying with them the evi- 
dences of Burford's scanty means, in corroboration 
of the tale o** suffering and fatigue which they had 
to relate. " See !" said Lady Alberry, holding 
up the coat, and emptying the purse on the table, 
" are these signs of opulence ? and is travelling 
on foot, in a hot June day, a proof of splendid liv- 
ing ?" While the harsh creditor, as he listened to 
the tale of delirium, and read the confession of 
Annabel, regretted the hasty credence which he 
had given to her falsehoods. 

But what was best to be done ? To send for 
Burford's wife ; — and, till she arrived to nurse him, 
Sir James and Lady Alberry declared that they 
would not leave the inn. It was therefore agreed 
that the nephew should go to Burford's house in 
the barouche, and escort his wife back. He did 
so ; and while Annabel, lost in painful thought, was 
walking on the road, she saw the barouche driving 
up, with her young fellow-traveller in it. As it re- 
quires great suffering to subdue such overweening 



THE STAGE COACH. oD 

vanity as Annabel's, her first thought, on seeing him, 
was, that her youthful beau vvas'a young heir, who 
had travelled in disguise, and was now come in state 
to make her an offer ! She, therefore, blushed 
with pleasure as he approached, and received his 
bow with a countenance of joy. But his face 
expressed no answering pleasure ; and, coldly pass- 
ing her, he said his business was with her mother, 
who, alarmed, she scarcely knew why, stood trem- 
bling at the door ; nor was she less alarmed when 
the feeling youth told his errand, in broken and fal- 
tering accents, and delivered Lady Alberry's letter. 
" Annabel must go with me !" said her mother, in a 
deep and solemn tone. Then, lowering her voice, 
because unwilling to reprove her before a stranger, 
she added, " Yes, my child ! thou must go, to see 
the effects of thy errors, and take sad, but salutary, 
warning for the rest of thy life. We shall not de- 
tain you long, Sir," she continued, turning to 
Charles Dan vers ; " our slender wardrobe can be 
soon prepared." 

In a short time, the calm, but deeply suffering, 
wife, and the weeping humbled daughter, were on 
their road to the inn. The mother scarcely spoke 
during the whole of the journey ; but she seemed 
to pray a great deal ; and the young man was so 
affected, with the subdued anguish of the one, and 
the passionate grief of the other, that, he declared 
to Lady Alberry, he had never been awakened to 
such serious thought before, and hoped to be the 
better for the journey through the whole of his exist- 
ence ; while, in her penitent sorrow, he felt inclin- 
ed to forget iVnnabel's fault, coquetry, and affec- 
tation. 

When they reached the inn, the calmness of the 
wife was entirely overcome at the sight of Lady 



36 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Alberry, who, opened her arms to receive her with 
the kindness of an'attached friend ; whispering, as 
she did so, " He has been sensible ; and he knew 
Sir James ; knew him as an affectionate friend and 
nurse !" — " Gracious heaven, I thank thee !" she 
replied, hastening to his apartment, leading the re- 
luctant Annabel along. But he did not know them ; 
and his wife was at first speechless with sorrow : . at 
length, recovering her calmness, she said, " See ! 
dear, unhappy girl ! to what thy sinfulness has re- 
duced thy fond father ! Humble thyself, my child, 
before the Great Being whom thou hast offended ; 
and own his mercy in the awful warning !" "I 
am humbled, I am warned, I trust," cried Anna- 
bel, falling on her knees ; " but, if he die, what 
will become of me . ? " — " What will become of us 
allV replied the mother, shuddering at the bare 
idea of losing him, but preparing, with forced com- 
posure, for her important duties. Trying ones in- 
deed they were, through many days and nights, 
that the wife and daughter had to watch beside the 
bed of the unconscious Burford. The one heard 
herself kindly invoked, and tenderly desired, and 
her absence wondered at ; while the other never 
heard her name mentioned, during the ravings of 
fever, without heart-rending upbraidings, and just 
reproofs. But Burford's life was granted to the 
prayers of agonizing affection ; and, when recollec- 
tion returned, he had the joy of knowing that his 
reputation was cleared, that his angry creditors 
were become his kind friends, and that Sir James 
Alberry lamented, with bitter regret, that he could 
no longer prove his confidence in him by making 
him his partner. But, notwithstanding this blight 
to his prospects, Burford piously blessed the event 
which had had so salutary an influence on his of- 



THE STAGE COACH. 37 

fending child ; and had taught her a lesson which 
she was not likely to forget. Lady Alberry, how- 
ever, thought that the lesson was not yet sufficient- 
ly complete ; for, though Annabel might be cured 
of lying by the consequences of her falsehoods, the 
vanity which prompted them might still remain un- 
corrected. Therefore, as Annabel had owned that 
it was the wish not to lose consequence in the eyes 
of her supposed admirer, which had led her to her 
last fatal falsehood, Lady Alberry, with the moth- 
er's appobation, contrived a plan for laying the 
axe, if possible, to the root of her vanity ; and she 
took the earliest opportunity of asking Charles Dan- 
vers, in her presence, and that of her mother, some 
particulars concerning what passed in the coach, 
and his opinion on the subject. As she expected, 
he gave a softened and favourable representation ; 
and would not allow that he did not form a favour- 
able opinion of his fair companion. " What ! 
Charles," said she, " do you pretend to deny that 
you mimicked her voice and manner ?" She then 
repeated all that he had said, and his declaration 
that her evident vanity and coquetry steeled his 
heart against her, copying, at the same time, his ac- 
curate mimickry of Annabel's manner ; nor did 
she rest till she had drawn from him a full avowal 
that what he had asserted was true ; for, Lady Al- 
berry was not a woman to be resisted ; while the 
mortified, humbled, but corrected Annabel, could 
only hide her face in her mother's bosom ; who, 
while she felt for the salutary pangs inflicted on 
her, mingled caresses with her tears, and whispered 
in her ear, that the mortification which she endured 
was but for a moment ; and the benefit would be, 
she trusted, of eternal duration. The lesson was 
4 



38 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

now complete indeed. Annabel found that she 
had not only, by her lies of vanity, deprived her fa- 
ther of a lucrative business, but that she had exposed 
herself to the ridicule and contempt of that very 
being who had been the cause of her error ; and, 
in the depth of her humbled and contrite heart, she 
resolved from that moment to struggle with her be- 
setting sins, and subdue them. Nor was the re- 
solve of that trying moment ever broken. But 
when her father, whose original destination had 
been the church, was led, by his own wishes, to 
take orders, and was, in process of time, inducted 
into a considerable living, in the gift of Sir James 
Alberry, Annabel rivalled her mother in perform- 
ing the duties of her new station : and, when she 
became a wife and mother herself, she had a mourn- 
ful satisfaction in relating the above story to her 
children ; bidding them beware of all lying ; but 
more especially of that common lie, the lie of vani- 
ty, whether it be active or passive, " Not," said 
she, " that retributive justice in this world, like 
that which attended mine, may always follow your 
falsehoods, or those of others ; but because all ly- 
ing is contrary to the moral law of God ; and that 
the liar, as scripture tells us, is not only liable to 
punishment and disgrace here, but will be the ob- 
ject of certain and more awful punisnment in the 
world to come." 

The following tale illustrates the passive lie p£ 

VANITY. 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 39 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 

There are two sayings — the one derived from 
divine, the other from human, authority — the truth 
of which is continually forced upon us by experi- 
ence. They are these : — " A prophet is not with- 
out honour, except in his own country ;" and " No 
man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre." — " Fa- 
miliarity breeds contempt," is also a proverb to the 
same effect ; and they all three bear upon the ten- 
dency in our natures to undervalue the talents, and 
the claims to distinction, of those with whom we are 
closely connected and associated ; and on our in- 
capability to believe that they, whom we have always 
considered as our equals only, or perhaps as our in- 
feriors, can be to the rest of the world objects of 
admiration and respect. 

No one was more convinced of the truth of these 
sayings than Darcy Pennington, the only child of a 
pious and virtuous couple, who thought him the best 
of sons, and one of the first of geniuses ; but, as 
they were not able to persuade the rest of the fami- 
ly of this latter truth, when they died, Darcy's un- 
cle and guardian insisted on his going into a mer- 
chant's counting-house in London, instead of being 
educated for one of the learned professions. Dar- 
cy had a mind too well disciplined to rebel against 
his guardian's authority. He therefore submitted 
to his allotment in silence ; resolving that his love 
of letters and the muses should not interfere with 
his duties to his employer, but he devoted all his 
leisure hours to literary pursuits ; and, as he had 



40 ILLUSTEATIONS OP LYING. 

real talents, he was at length raised, from the un- 
paid contributor to the poetical columns in a news- 
paper, to the paid writer in a popular magazine ; 
while his poems, signed Alfred, became objects of 
eager expectation. But Darcy's own family and 
friends could not have been more surprised at his 
growing celebrity than he himself was : for he was 
a sincere, humble christian ; and, having been ac- 
customed to bow to the opinion of those whom he 
considered as his superiors in intellect and knowl- 
edge, he could scarcely believe in his own emi- 
nence. But it was precious to his heart, rather 
than to his vanity ; as it enabled him to indulge 
those benevolent feelings, which his small income 
had hitherto restrained. At length he published a 
duodecimo volume of poems and hymns, still under 
the name of Alfred, which was highly praised in re- 
views and journals, and a strong desire was express- 
ed to know who the modest, promising, and pious 
writer was. 

Notwithstanding, Darcy could not prevail upon 
himself to disclose his name. He visited his native 
town every year, and in the circle of his family and 
friends, was still considered only as a good sort of 
lad, who had been greatly overrated by his parents 
— was just suited for the situation in which he had 
been placed — and was very fortunate to have been 
received into partnership with the merchant to 
whom he had been clerk. In vain did Darcy 
sometimes endeavour to hint that he was an au- 
thor ; he remembered the contempt with which his 
uncle, and relations, had read one of the earliest 
fruits f his muse, when exhibited by his fond fath- 
er, and the advice given to burn such stuff, and not 
turn the head of a dull boy, by making him fancy 
himself a genius. Therefore., recollecting the wise 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 41 

saying quoted above, he feared that the news of his 
literary celebrity would not be received with pleas- 
ure, and that the affection with which he was now 
welcomed might suffer diminution. Besides, 
thought he, — and then his heart rose in his throat, 
with a choking painful feeling, — those tender pa- 
rents, who would have enjoyed my little fame, are 
cold, and unconscious now ; and the ears, to which 
my praises would have been sweet music, cannot 
hear ; therefore, methinks, 1 have a mournful 
pleasure in keeping on that veil, the removal of 
which cannot confer pleasure on them." — Conse- 
quently he remained contented to be warmly wel- 
comed at D — for talents of an humble sort such as 
his power for mending toys, making kites, and rab- 
bits on the wall ; which talents endeared him to all 
the children of his family and friends ; and, through 
them, to their parents. Yet it may be asked, was 
it possible that a young man, so gifted, could con- 
ceal his abilities from observation ? 

Oh, yes. Darcy, to borrow Addison's metaphor 
concerning himself, though he could draw a bill 
for £1000, had never any small change in his 
pocket. Like him he could write, but he could 
not talk ; he was discouraged in a moment ; and 
the slightest rebuff made him hesitate to a painful 
degree. He had, however, some flattering mo- 
ments, even amidst his relations and friends ; for he 
heard them repeating his verses and singing his 
songs. He had also far greater joy in hearing his 
hymns in places of public worship ; and then, too 
much choked with grateful emotion to join in the 
devotional chorus himself, he used to feel h ?wn 
soul raised to heaven upon those wings which he 
had furnished for the souls of others. At such mo- 
4* 



42 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 

merits he longed to discover himself as the author ; 
but was withheld by the fear that his songs would 
cease to be admired, and his hymns would lose 
their usefulness, if it were known that he had writ- 
ten them. However, he resolved to feel his way ; 
and once, on hearing a song of his commended, he 
ventured to observe, " I think 1 can write as good 
a one." — " You !" cried his uncle ; " what a con- 
ceited boy ! I remember that you used to scribble 
verses when a child ; but 1 thought you had been 
laughed out of that nonsense." — " My dear fellow* 
nature never meant thee for a poet, believe me," 
said one of his cousins conceitedly,— a young col- 
legian. " No, no ; like the girl iuthe drama, thou 
wouldst make 'love ' and ; joy ' rhyme, and know 
no better." — " But 1 have written, and I cair 
rhyme," replied Darcy, colouring a little.—" In- 
deed !" replied his formal aunt ; " Well, Mr. Dar- 
cy Pennington, it really would be very amusing to 
see your erudite productions ; perhaps you will in- 
dulge us some day." — " I will ; and then you may 
probably alter your opinion." Soon after Darcy 
wrote an anonymous prose tale in one volume, in- 
terspersed with poetry, which had even a greater 
run than his other writings ; and it was attributed 
first to one person, and then to another ; while his 
publisher was excessively pressed to declare the 
name of the author ; but he did not himself know 
it, as he only knew Darcy, avowedly, under a feign- 
ed name. But, at length, Darcy resolved to dis- 
close his secret, at least to his relatives and friends 
at D — ; and just as the second edition of his tale 
was nearly completed, he set off for his native place, 
taking with him the manuscript, full of the prin- 
ter's marks, to prove that he was the author of it. 
He had one irresistible motive for thus walking 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 43 

out from his incognito, like Homer's deities from 
their cloud. He had fallen in love with his second 
cousin, Julia Vane, an heiress, and his uncle's ward ; 
and had become jealous of himself, as he had, for 
some months, wooed her in anonymous poetry, 
which she, he found, attributed to a gentleman in 
the neighbourhood, whose name he knew not; and 
she had often declared that, such was her passion 
for poetry, he who could woo her in beautiful verse 
was alone likely to win her heart. 

On the very day of his arrival, he said in the 
family circle that he had brought down a little man- 
uscript of his own, which he wished to read to 
them. Oh ! the comical grimaces ! the suppress- 
ed laughter, growing and swelling, however, till it 
could be restrained no longer, which was the re- 
sult of this request ! And oh ! the looks of con- 
sternation when Darcy produced the manuscript 
from his pocket ! " Why, Darcy," said his uncle, 
" this is really a word and a blow ; but you cannot 
read it to-night ; we are engaged." — " Certainly, 
Mr. Darcy Pennington," said his aunt, " if you 
wish to read your astonishing productions, we are 
bound in civility to hear them ; but we are all go- 
ing to Sir Hugh Belson's, and shall venture to take 
you with us, though it is a great favour and privi- 
lege to be permitted to go on such an occasion ; for 
a gentleman is staying there who has written such 
a sweet book ! It is only just out, yet it cannot be 
had ; because the first edition is sold, and the sec- 
ond not finished. So Sir Hugh, for whom your 
uncle is exerting himself against the next election, 
has been so kind as to invite us to hear the author 
read his own work. This gentleman does not, in- 
deed, own that he wrote it ; still he does not deny 
it ; and it is clear, by his manner, that he did write 



44 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

it, and that he would be very sorry not to be con- 
sidered as the writer." — " Very well, then ; the 
pleasure of hearing another author read his own 
work shall be delayed," replied Darcy, smiling. 
" Perhaps, when you have heard this gentleman's, 
you will not be so eager to read yours, Darcy," 
said Julia Vane ; " for you used to be a modest 
man." Darcy sighed, loooked significantly, but 
remained silent. 

In the evening they went to Sir Hugh Belson's, 
where, in the Captain Eustace, who was to delight 
the company, Darcy recognised the gentleman who 
had been pointed out to him as the author of sever- 
al meagre performances handed about in manu- 
script in certain circles ; which owed their celeb- 
rity to the birth and fashion of the writer, and to 
the bribery which is always administered to the self- 
love of those who are the select few chosen to see 
and judge on such occasions. 

Captain Eustace now prepared to read ; but 
when he named the title of the book which he held 
in his hand, Darcy started from his seat in surprise ; 
for it was the title of his own work ! But there 
might be two works with the same title ; and he 
sat down again ; but when the reader continued, 
and he could doubt no longer, he again started up, 
and, with stuttering eagerness, said, 4 ' Wh-wh — 
who, sir, did you say, wrote this book ?" — " I have 
named no names, sir," replied Eustace conceited- 
ly ; " the author is unknown, and wishes to remain 
so." — " Mr. Darcy Pennington," cried his aunt, 
" sit down and be quiet ;". and he obeyed. — " Mr. 
Pennington," said Sir Hugh, affectedly, " the vio- 
let must be sought, and is discovered with difficulty, 
you know ; for it shrinks from observation, and 
loves the shade." Darcy bowed assent ; but fixed 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 46 

his eyes on the discovered violet before him with 
such an equivocal expression, that Eustace was dis- 
concerted ; and the more so, when Darcy, who 
could not but feel the ludicrous situation in which 
he was placed, hid his face in his handkerchief, and 
was evidently shaking with laughter. " Mr. Dar- 
cy Pennington, I am really ashamed of you," whis- 
pered his aunt ; and Darcy recovered his com- 
posure. He had now two hours of great enjoy- 
ment. He heard that book admirably read which 
he had intended to read the next day, and knew 
that he should read ill. He heard that work ap- 
plauded to the skies as the work of another, which 
would, he feared, have been faintly commended, if 
known to be his ; and he saw the fine eyes of the 
woman he loved drowned in tears, by the power of 
his own simple pathos. The poetry in the book 
was highly admired also ; and, when Eustace paus- 
ed to take breath, Julia whispered in his ear, 
" Captain Eustace is the gentleman who, I have 
every reason to believe, wrote some anonymous 
poetry sent me by the post ; for Captain Eustace 
pays me, as you see, marked attention ; and as he 
denies that he wrote the verses, exactly as he de- 
nies that he wrote the book which he is now read- 
ing, it is very evident that he wrote both." — " I 
dare say," replied Darcy, colouring with resent- 
ment, " that he as much wrote the one as he wrote 
the other y — " What do you mean, Darcy ? There 
can be no doubt of the fact ; and I own that I can- 
not be insensible to such talent ; for poetry and 
poets are my passion, you know ; and in his author- 
ship I forget his plainness. Do you not think that 
a woman would be justified in loving a man who 
writes so morally, so piously, and so delightfully ?" 
— " Certainly," replied Darcy, eagerly grasping 



46 Illustrations op lying. 

her hand, " provided his conduct be in unison with 
his writings ; and I advise you to give the writer in 
question your whole heart." 

After the reading was over, the delighted audi- 
ence crowded round the reader, whose man- 
ner of receiving their thanks was such, as to make 
every one but Darcy believe the work was his own ; 
and never was the passive lie of vanity more 
completely exhibited ; while Darcy, intoxicated, 
as it were, by the feelings of gratified authorship, 
and the hopes excited by Julia's words, thanked him 
again and again for the admirable manner in which 
he had read the book ; declaring, with great earn- 
estness, that he could not have done it such justice 
himself ; adding, that this evening was the happiest 
of his life. 

*f Mr. Darcy Pennington, what ails you ?" cried 
his aunt ; " you really are not like yourself !" — 
" Hold your tongue, Darcy," said his uncle, draw- 
ing him on one side ; " do not be such a forward 
puppy ; — who ever questioned, or cared, whether 
you could have done it justice or not . p But here 
is the carriage ; and I am glad you have no longer 
an opportunity of thus exposing yourself by your 
literary and critical raptures, which sit as ill upon 
you as the caressings of the ass in the fable did on 
him, when he pretended to compete with the lapdog 
in fondling his master." 

During the drive home, Darcy did not speak a 
word ; not only because he was afraid of his severe 
uncle and aunt, but, because he was meditating how 
he should make that discovery, on the success of 
which hung his dearest hopes. He was also com- 
muning with his own heart, in order to bring it back 
to that safe humility out of which it had been led 
by the flattering, and unexpected, events of the „ 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 47 

evening. " Well," said he, while they drew round 
the fire, " as it is not late, suppose I read my work 
to you now. I assure you that, it is quite as good 
as that which you have heard." — " Mr. Darcy 
Pennington, you really quite alarm me," cried his 
aunt. " Why so ?" — " Because I fear that you 
are a little delirious .'" — On which Darcy nearly 
laughed himself into convulsions. " Let me feel 
your pulse, Darcy," said his uncle very gravely, 
— " too quick. — I shall send for advice, if you are 
not better to-morrow ; you look so flushed, and 
your eyes are so bright i" — " My dear uncle," re- 
plied Darcy, " I shall be quite well if you will but 
hear my manuscript before we go to bed." They 
now all looked at each other with increased alarm ; 
and Julia, in order to please him, (for she really 
loved him) said, " Well, Darcy, if you insist upon 
it ;" — but interrupting her, he suddenly started up, 
and exclaimed, " No ; on second thoughts, I will 
not read it till Captain Eustace and Sir Hugh and 
his family can be present ; and they will be here 
the day after to-morrow." — " What ! read your non- 
sense to them !" cried his uncle, " Poor fellow ! 
poor fellow !" But Darcy was gone ! he had 
caught Julia's hand to his lips, and quitted the 
room, leaving his relations to wonder, to fear, and 
to pity. But as Darcy was quite composed the 
next day, they all agreed that he must have drunk 
more wine than he or they had been aware of the 
preceding evening. But though Darcy was will- 
ing to wait the ensuing evening, before he discov- 
ered his secret to the rest of the family, he could 
not be easy till he had disclosed it to Julia ; for he 
was mortified to find that the pious, judicious Julia 
Vane had, for one moment, believed that a mere 
man of the world, like Captain Eustace, could have 



48 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

written such verses as he had anonymously address- 
to her ; verses breathing the very quintessence of 
pure love ; and full of anxious interest not only for 
her temporal, but her eternal welfare. " No, no," 
said he ; " she shall not remain in such a degrad- 
ing error one moment longer :" and having re- 
quested a private interview with her, he disclosed 
the truth. — " What ! are you — can you be — did 
you write all !" she exclaimed in broken accents ; 
while Darcy gently reproached her for having be- 
lieved that a mere worldly admirer could so have 
written ; however, she justified herself by declaring 
how impossible it was to suspect that a man of hon- 
our, as Eustace seemed, could be so base as to as- 
sume a merit which was not his own. Here she 
paused, turning away from Darcy's penetrating look, 
covered with conscious blushes, ashamed that he 
should see how pleased she was. But she readily 
acknowledged her sorrow at having been betrayed, 
by the unworthy artifice of Eustace, into encourag- 
ing his attentions, and was eager to concert with 
Darcy the best plan for revealing the surprising 
secret. 

The evening, so eagerly anticipated by Darcy 
and Julia, now arrived ; and great was the conster- 
nation of all the rest of the family, when Darcy 
took a manuscript out of his pocket, and began to 
open it. " The fellow is certainly possessed," 
thought his uncle. " Mr. Darcy Pennington," 
whispered his aunt, " I shall faint if you persist in 
exposing yourself !" — " Darcy, I will shut you up 
if you proceed," whispered his uncle ; " for you 
must positively be mad." — rt Let him go on, dear 
uncle," said Julia ; " I am sure you will be de- 
lighted, or ought to be so :" and, spite of his qn- 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 49 

^le's threats and whispers, he addressed Captain 
Eustace thus : — 

" Allow me, Sir, to thank you again for the more 
than justice which you did my humble performance 
the other evening. Till I heard you read it, I was 
unconscious that it had so much merit ; and I again 
thank you for the highest gratification which, as an 
author, I ever received." New terror seized every 
one of his family who heard him, except Julia ; 
while wonder filled Sir Hugh and the rest of his 
party — Eustace excepted : he knew that he was 
not the author of the work ; therefore he could not 
dispute the fact that the real author now stood be- 
fore him ; and blushes of detected falsehood cover- 
ed his cheek ; but, ere he could falter out a reply, 
Darcy's uncle and sons seized him by the arm, and 
insisted on speaking with him in another room. 
Darcy, laughing violently, endeavoured to shake 
them off, but in vain. " Let him alone," said 
Julia, smiling, and coming forward. " Darcy's 
{ eye may be in a fine frenzy rolling,' as you have 
all of you owned him to be a poet ; but other fren- 
zy than that of a poet he has not, I assure you — 
so pray set him at liberty ; 1 will be answerable for 
his sanity " — " What does all this mean ?" said his 
uncle, as he and his sons unwillingly obeyed. " It 
means," said Darcy, " that I hope not to quit this 
room till I have had the delight of hearing these yet 
unpublished poems of mine read by Captain Eus- 
tace. Look, Sir, continued he, " here is a signa- 
ture well known, no doubt, to you ; that of Alfred." 
— " Are you indeed Alfred, the celebrated Al- 
fred ?" faltered out Eustace. " I believe so," he 
replied with a smile ; though on some occasions, 
you know,it is difficult to prove one's personal iden- 
5 



50 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

fity." — True," answered Eustace, turning over the 
manuscript, to hide his confusion. " And I, Cap- 
tain Eustace," said Julia, " have had the great sat- 
isfaction of discovering that my unknown poetical 
correspondent is my long-cherished friend and cous- 
in, Darcy Pennington. Think how satisfactory 
this discovery has been to me /" — " Certainly, 
Madam," he replied, turning pale with emotion ; 
for he not only saw his Passive Lies of Vanity de- 
tected, though Darcy had too much Christian for- 
bearance even to insinuate that he intended to ap- 
propriate to himself the fame of another, but he al- 
so saw, in spite of the kindness with which she ad- 
dressed him, that he had lost Julia, and that Darcy 
had probably gained her. " What is all this ?" 
cried Sir Hugh at last, who with the uncle and aunt 
had listened in silent wonder. " Why, Eustace, I 
thought you owned that?" — " That I deny ; I own- 
ed nothing ;" he eagerly replied. " You insisted 
on it, nay, every body insisted, that I was the aw- 
thor of the beautiful work which I read, and of oth- 
er things ; and if Mr. Pennington asserts that he is 
the author, I give him joy of his genius and his 
fame." — " What do I hear !" cried the aunt ; " Mr. 
Darcy Pennington a genius, and famous, and I not 
suspect it !" — " Impossible !" cried his uncle, pet- 
tishly ; " that dull fellow turn out a wit ! It can- 
not be. What ! are you Alfred, boy ? 1 cannot 
credit it ; for if so, 1 have been dull indeed ;" 
while his sons seemed to feel as much mortification 
as surprise. " My dear uncle," said Darcy, " I 
am now a professed author. 1 wrote the work 
which you heard last night. Here it is in the man- 
uscript, as returned by the printer ; and here is the 
last proof of the second edition, which I received 
at the post-office just now, directed to A. B 



1 



O^ THE LIES OF FLATTEKY. 51 

which is, I think, proof positive that I may be Al- 
fred also, who, by your certainly impartial praises, 
is for this evening, at least, in bis own eyes elevated 
into Alfred the Great." 



CHAPTER III. 

ON THE LIES OF FLATTERY. 

The Lies of Flattery are next on my list* 
These lies are, generally speaking, not only un- 
principled, but offensive ; and though they are 
usually told to conciliate good will, the flatterer of- 
ten fails in his attempt ; for his intended dupe fre- 
quently sees through his art, and he excites indig- 
nation where he meant to obtain regard. Those 
who know aught of human nature as it really is, 
and do not throw the radiance of their own chris- 
tian benevolence over it, must be well aware that 
few persons hear with complacency the praises of 
others, even where there is no competition between 
the parties praised and themselves. Therefore, the 
objscts of excessive flattery are painfully conscious 
that the praises bestowed on them, in the hearing 
of their acquaintances, will not only provoke those 
auditors to undervalue their pretensions, but to ac- 
cuse them of be- eving in and enjoying the gross 
flattery offered to them. There are no persons, in 
my opinion, with whom it is so difficult to keep up 
" the relations of peace and amity," as flatterers 
by system and habit. Those persons, I mean, who 
deal out their flatteries on the same principle as 



52 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING/ 

boys throw a handful of burs. However unskilful- 
ly the burs are thrown, the chances are that some 
will stick ; and flatterers expect that some of their 
compliments will dwell with, and impose on, their 
intended dupe. Perhaps their calculation is not, 
generally considered, an erroneous one ; but if 
there be any of their fellow-creatures with whom 
the sensitive and the discerning may be permitted 
to loathe association, it is with those who presume 
to address them in the language of compliment, too 
violent and unappropriate to deceive even for a mo- 
ment ; while they discover on their lips the flicker- 
ing sneer of contempt contending with its treacher- 
ous smile, and mark their wily eye looking round 
in search of some responsive one, to which it can 
communicate their sense of the uttered falsehood, 
and their mean exultation over their imagined dupe. 
The lies of benevolence, even when they can be 
resolved into lies of flattery, may be denominated 
amiable lies ; but the lie of flattery is usually utter- 
ed by the bad-hearted and censorious ; therefore 
to the term lie of flattery might be added an 
alias ; — alias, the lie of malevolence. 

Coarse and indiscriminating flatterers lay it down 
as a rule, that they are to flatter all persons on the 
qualities which they have not. Hence, they flatter 
the plain, on their beauty ; the weak, on their intel- 
lect ; the dull, on their wit ; believing, in the sar- 
castic narrowness of their conceptions, that no one 
possesses any self-knowledge ; but that every one 
implicitly believes the truth of the eulogy bestowed. 
This erroneous view, taken by the flatterer of the 
penetration of ihe flattered, is common only in those 
who have more cunning than intellect ; more 
shrewdness than penetration ; and whose knowl- 
edge of the weakness of our nature has been gath- 



ON THE LIES OF FLATTERY. 53 

ered, not from deep study of the human heart, but 
from the depravity of their own, or from the pages 
of ancient and modern satirists ; — those who have 
a mean, malignant pleasure, in believing in the ab- 
sence of all moral truth amongst their usual asso- 
ciates ; and are glad to be able to comfort them- 
selves for their own conscious dereliction from a 
high moral standard, by the conviction that they 
are, at least, as good as their neighbours. Yes ; 
my experience tells me that the above-mentioned 
rule of flattery is acted upon only by the half-en- 
lightened, who take for superiority of intellect that 
base low cunning, 

which, in fools, supplies, 

And amply too, the place of being wise. 

But the deep observer of human nature knows 
that where there is real intellect, there are discern-* 
ment and self-knowledge also ; and that the really 
intelligent are aware to how much praise and ad- 
miration they are entitled, be it encomium on their 
personal, or mental, qualifications. 

I beg to give one illustration of the Lie of Flat- 
tery, in the following tale, of which the offending 
heroine is a female ; though, as men are the licens- 
ed flatterers of women, 1 needed not to have feared 
the imputation of want of candour, had I taken my 
example from one of the wiser sex. 



5* 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYINtf. 



THE TURBAN; 



THE LIE OF FLATTERY. 

Some presons are such determined flatterers both 
by nature and habit, that they flatter unconscious- 
ly, and almost involuntarily. Such a flatterer was 
Jemima Aldred ; but, as the narrowness of her for- 
tune made her unable to purchase the luxuries of 
life in which she most delighted, she was also a 
conscious and voluntary flatterer whenever she was 
with those who had it in their power to indulge her 
favourite inclinations. 

There was one distinguished woman in the circle 
of her acquaintance, whose favour she was particu- 
larly desirous of gaining, and who was therefore the 
constant object of her flatteries. This lady, who 
was rendered, by her situation, her talents, and her 
virtues, an object of earthly worship to many of 
her associates, had a good-natured indolence about 
her, which made her receive the incense offered, as 
if she believed in its sincerity. But the flattery of 
young Jemima was so gross, and so indiscriminate, 
that it sometimes converted the usual gentleness of 
Lady Delaval's nature into gall ; and she felt indig- 
nant at being supposed capable of relishing adula- 
tion so excessive, and devotion so servile. But, as 
as she was full of christian benevolence, and, con- 
sequently, her first desire was to do good, she al- 
lowed pity for the poor girl's ignorance to conquer 
resentment, and laid a plan, in order to correct and 
amend her, if possible, by salutary mortification. 

Accordingly, she invited Jemima, and some oth- 
er young ladies, to spend a whole day with her at 



THE TURBAN. 55 

her house in the country. But, as the truly bene- 
volent are always reluctant to afflict any one, even 
though it be to improve^ Lady Delaval would have 
shrunk from the task which she had imposed on 
herself, had not Jemima excited her into persever- 
ance, by falling repeatedly and grossly into her be- 
setting sin during the course of the day. For in- 
stance : Lady Delaval, who usually left the choice 
of her ribbands to her milliner, as she was not studi- 
ous of her personal appearance, wore colours at 
breakfast that morning which she thought ill-suited 
both to her years and complexion ; and having ask- 
ed her guests how they liked her scarf and rib- 
bands, they pronounced them to be beautiful. 
" But, surely, they do not become my olive, ill- 
looking skin !" — " They are certainly not becom- 
ing," was the ingenuous reply of all but Jemima 
Aldred, who persisted in asserting that the colour 
was as becoming as it was brilliant ; adding, " I do 
not know what dear Lady Delaval means by under- 
valuing her own clear complexion." — " The less 
that is said about that the better, I believe," she 
dryly replied, not trying to conceal the sarcastic 
smile which played upon her lip, and feeling 
strengthened, by this new instance of Jemima's du- 
plicity, to go on with her design 5 but Jemima 
thought she had endeared herself to her by flatter- 
ing her personal vanity ; and, while her compan- 
ions frowned reproach for her insincerity, she wish- 
ed for an opportunity of reproving their rudeness. 
After tea, Lady Delaval desired her maid to bring 
her down the foundation for a turban, which she 
was going to pin up, and some other finery prepar- 
ed for the same purpose ; and in a short time the 
most splendid materials for millinery shone upon 
the table. When she began her task, her other 



56 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

guests, Jemima excepted, worked also, but she was 
sufficiently employed, she said, in watching the cre- 
ative and tasteful ringers of her friend. At first, 
Lady Delaval made the turban of silver tissue ; and 
Jemima was in ecstasies ; but the next moment 
she declared that covering to be too simple ; and 
Jemima thought so too ; — while she was in equal 
ecstasies at the effect of a gaudy many-coloured 
gauze which replaced its modest costliness. But 
still her young companions openly preferred the sil- 
ver covering, declaring that the gay one could only 
be tolerated if nothing else of showy ornament were 
superadded. They gave, however, their opinion 
in vain. Coloured stonesi a gold band, and a 
green spun-glass feather, were all in their turn 
heaped upon this showy head-dress, while Jemima 
exulted over every fresh addition, and admired it 
as a new proof of Lady Delaval's taste. " Now, 
then, it is completed," cried Lady Delaval ; " but 
no ; suppose I add a scarlet feather to the green 
One ; Oh ! that would be superb ;" and having 
given this desirable finish to her performance, Je- 
mima declared it to be perfect ; but the rest of the 
company were too honest to commend it. Lady 
Delaval then put it on her head ; and it was as un- 
becoming as it was ugly : but Jemima exclaimed 
that her dear friend had never worn any thing be- 
fore in which she looked so well, adding, " But 
then she looks well in every thing. However, that 
lovely turban would become any one." — " Try 
how it would fit you !" said Lady Delaval, putting 
it on her head. Jemima looked in a glass, and 
saw that to her short, small person, little face, and 
little turned-up nose, such an enormous mass of 
finery was the destruction of all comeliness ; but, 
while the by-standers laughed immoderately at her 



THE TURBAN, 57 

appearance, Jemima was loud in her admiration, 
and volunteered a wish to wear it at some public 
place — " for I think, I do look so well in it !" cried 
Jemima. " If so," said her hostess, " you, young 
ladies, on this occasion, have neither taste, nor 
eyes ;" while Jemima danced about the room, ex- 
ulting in her heavy head-dress, in the triumph of her 
falsehood, and in the supposed superior ascendancy 
it had gained her over her hostess above that of her 
more sincere companions. Nor, when Lady De- 
laval expressed her fear that the weight might be 
painful, would she allow it to be removed ; but she 
declared that she liked her burden. At parting, 
Lady Delaval, in a tone^)f great significance, told 
her that she should hear from her the next day. 
The next morning Jemima often dwelt on these 
marked words, impatient for an explanation of 
them ; and between twelve and one o'clock a ser- 
vant of Lady Delaval's brought a letter and a 
bandbox. 

The letter was first opened ; and was as follows : 

" Dear Jemima, 
11 As I know that you have long wished to visit 
my niece Lady Ormsby, and also to attend the as- 
tronomical lecture on the grand transparent orrery, 
which is to be given at the public rooms this even- 
ing, for the benefit of the Infirmary ; though your 
praise-worthy prudence prevented you from sub- 
scribing to it, I have great pleasure in enclosing you 
a ticket for the lecture, and in informing you that I 
will call and take you to dinner at Lady Ormsby's 
at four o'clock, whence you and I, and the rest of 
the party, (which will be a splendid one) shall ad- 
journ to the lecture " " How kind ! how 

very kind !" exclaimed Jemima ; but, in her heart. 



08 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

imputing these favours to her recent flatteries ; and 
reading no farther, she ran to her mother's apartment 
to declare the joyful news" " Oh, mamma !" ex* 
claimed she, " how fortunate it was that I made up 
my dyed gauze when I did ! and I can wear nat- 
ural flowers in my hair ; and they are so becoming, 
as well as cheap." She then returned to her own 
room, to finish the letter and explore the contents 
of the box. But what was her consternation on 
reading the following words : . . . . " But 1 shall 
take you to the dinner, and I give you the ticket for 
the lecture, only on this express condition, — that 
you wear the accompanying turban, which was de- 
corated according to your laste and judgment, and 
in which you were conscious of looking so well ! — 
Every additional ornament was bestowed to please 
you ; and as I know that your wish will be not to de- 
prive me of a head-dress in which your vartial eves 
thought that Hooked so charmingly ,1 positively assure 
you that no consideration shall ever induce meio wear 
it ; and that J expect you to meet mysommons, ar- 
rayed in your youthful loveliness and my turban." 
Jemima sat in a sort of stupor after perusing 
this epistle ; and whe she started from it, it 
was to carry the letter and the turban to her 
mother. " Read that ! and look at that !" she ex- 
claimed, pointing to the turban. " Why, to be 
sure, Jemima, Lady Delaval must be making game 
of you," she replied. " What could produce such 
an absurd requisition ?" When called upon to an- 
swer this question, Jemima blushed ; and, for the 
first time, feeling some compunctious visitings of 
conscience, she almost hesitated to own that the an- 
noying conditions were the consequence of her flat- 
teries. Still, to comply with them was impossible ; 
and to go to the dinner and lecture without them. 



THE TURBAN. 59 

and thereby perhaps affront Lady Delaval, was im- 
possible also. — " What ! expect me to hide my 
pretty hair under that preposterous mountain f 
Never, never !" Vainly, now, did she try to ad- 
mire it ; and she felt its weight insupportable. 
" To be sure," said she to herself, " Captain Les- 
lie and George Vaux will dine at Lady Ormsby's, 
and go to the lecture ; but then they will not bear 
to look at me in this frightful head-dress, and will so 
quiz me ; and I am sure they will think me too great 
a quiz to sit by ! No, no ; much as I wish to go, 
and I do so very, very much wish it, I cannot go on 
these cruel conditions." — " But what excuse can 
you make to Lady Delaval . ? " — " I must tell her 
that I have a bad toothach, and cannot go ; and I 
will write her a note to say so ; and at the same 
time return the ugly turban." She did so ; — but 
when she saw Lady Delaval pass to the fine dinner, 
and heard the carriages at night going to the 
crowded lecture, she shed tears of bitterness and 
regret, and lamented that she had not dared to go 
without the conditional and detestable turban. The 
next day she saw Lady Delaval's carriage drive up 
to the door, and also saw the servant take a band- 
box out. " Oh dear, mamma," cried Jemima, " I 
protest that ridiculous old woman has brought her 
ugly turban back again !" and it was with a forced 
smile of welcome that she greeted Lady Delaval. 
— That lady entered the room with a graver and 
more dignified mien than usual ; for she came to 
reprove, and, she hoped, amend an offender against 
those principles of truth which she honoured, and 
to which she uniformly acted up. Just before La- 
dy Delaval appeared, Jemima recollected that she 
was to have the toothach ; therefore she tied up her 
face, adding a practical lie to the manv already 



60 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

told ; — for one lie is sure to make many. u I was 
sorry to find that you were not able to accompany 
me to the dinner and lecture," said she ; " and 
were kept at home by the toothach. Was that 
your only reason for staying at home ?" " Certain- 
ly, madam ; can you doubt it ?" — " Yes ; for I 
have strong suspicion that the toothach is a pre- 
tence, not a reality," — " This from you, Lady 
Delaval ! my once kind friend." — " Jemima, I am 
come to prove myself a far kinder friend than ever 
I did before. I am glad to find you alone ; be- 
cause I should not have liked to reprove a child be- 
fore her mother." Lady Delaval then reproached 
her astonished auditor with the mean habit of flat- 
tery, in which she was so apt to indulge ; assuring 
her that she had never been for one moment her 
dupe, and had insisted on her wearing the turban, 
in order to punish her despicable duplicity. " Had 
you not acted thus," continued Lady Delaval, " I 
meant to have taken you to the dinner and lecture, 
without conditions ; but I wished to inflict on you 
a salutary punishment, in hopes of convincing you 
that there are no qualities so safe, or so pleasing as 
truth and ingenuousness. — I saw you cast an alarm- 
ed look at the hat-box," she added, in a gayer tone ; 
but fear not ; the turban is no more ; and, in its 
stead, I have taken the liberty of bringing you a 
Leghorn bonnet ; and should you, while you wear 
it, feel any desire to flatter, in your usual degrad- 
ing manner, may it remind you of this conversation, 
and its cause, — and make your present mortifica- 
tion the means of your future good." At this mo- 
ment Jemima's mother entered the room, exclaim- 
ing : " Oh ! Lady Delaval ! 1 am glad you are 
come 1 my poor child's toothach is so bad ! and 
how unfortunate that" .... Lady Delaval cast 



THE TURBAN. 61 

on the mistaken mother a look of severe reproof, 
and on the daughter one of pity and unavailing re- 
gret ; for she felt that, for the child who is hourly 
exposed to the contagion of an unprincipled parent's 
example, there can be little chance of amendment ; 
and she hastened to her carriage, convinced that 
for the poor Jemima Aldred her labours of christian 
duty had been exerted in vain. She would have 
soon found how just her conviction was, had she 
heard the dialogue between the mother and daugh- 
ter, as soon as she drove off. Jemima dried up her 
hypocritical tears, and exclaimed, " A cross, meth- 
odistical creature ! I am glad she is gone !" — 
H What do you mean, child ? and what is all this 
about ?" Jemima having told her, she exclaimed, 
" Why the woman is mad ! What ! object to a 
little harmless flattery ! and call that lying, indeed ! 
Nonsense ! it is all a pretence. She hate flattery! 
no, indeed ; if you were to tell her the truth, she 
would hate you like poison." — " Very likely ; but 
see, mamma, what she has given me. What a 
beautiful bonnet ! But she owed it to me, for the 
trick she played me, and for her preaching." — 
" Well, child," answered her mother, " let her 
preach to you every day, and welcome, if she 
comes, as to-day, full-handed." 

Such was the effect of Lady Delaval's kind ef- 
forts, on a mother so teaching, and a daughter so 
taught ; for indelible indeed are those habits of 
falsehood and disingenuousness which children ac- 
quire, whose parents do not make a strict adherence 
to truth the basis of their children's education ; and 
punish all deviation from it with salutary rigour. 
But, whatever be the excellences or the errors of 
parents or preceptors, there is one necessary thing 
6 



62 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

for them to remember, or their excellences will be 
useless, and their faults irremediable ; namely, that 
they are not to form their children for the present 
world alone ; — they are to educate them not mere- 
ly as the children of time, but as the heirs of eternity. 



CHAPTER IV, 

LIES OF FEAR. 

I once believed that the lie of fear was confined 
to the low and uneducated of both sexes, and to. 
children ; but further reflection and observation; 
have convinced me that this is by no means the 
case ; but that, as this lie springs from the want of 
moral courage, and as this defect is by no means 
confined to any class or age, the result of it, that 
fear of man which prompts to the lie of fear, must 
be universal also ; though the nature, of the dread 
may be various, and of different degrees of strength. 
For instance ; a child or a servant (of course I 
speak of ill-educated children) breaks a toy or a 
glass, and denies having done so. Acquaintances 
forget to execute commissions intrusted to them,; 
and either say that they are executed, when they are 
not, or make some false excuses for an omission 
which was the result of forgetfulness only. No 
persons are guilty of so many of this sort of lies,. in : 
the year, as negligent correspondents ; since ex- 
cuses for not writing sooner are usually lies of fear 
— fear of having forfeited favour by too long a si- 
lence. 



LIES OF FEAR. 63 

As the lie of fear always proceeds, as I have be- 
fore observed, from a want of moral courage, it is 
often the result of want of resolution to say " no," 
when " yes " is more agreeable to the feelings of 
the questioner. " Is not my new gown pretty ?" 
" Is not my new hat becoming ?" " Is not my 
coat of a good colour ?" There are few persons 
who have courage to say " no," even to these tri- 
vial questions ; though the negative would be truth, 
and the affirmative, falsehood. And still less are 
they able to be honest in their replies to questions 
of a more delicate nature. " Is not my last work 
the best?" "Is not my wife beautiful?" "Is 
not my daughter agreeable ?" " Is not my son a 
fine youth ?" — those insnaring questions, which con- 
tented and confiding egotism is only too apt to ask. 

Fear of wounding the feelings of the interrogator 
prompts an affirmative answer. But, perhaps, a lie 
on these occasions is one of the least displeasing, 
because it may possibly proceed from a kind aver- 
sion to give pain, and occasion disappointment ; and 
has a degree of relationship, a distant family resem- 
blance, tO the LIE OF BENEVOLENCE J tllOUgh, 

when accurately analysed, even this good-natured 
falsehood may be resolved into selfish dread of los- 
ing favour by speaking the truth. Of these pseudo- 
lies of benevolence I shall treat in their turn ; but 
I shall now proceed to relate a story, to illustrate 
the lie of fear, and its important results, under 
apparently unimportant circumstances. 



64 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING 3 



THE BANK NOTE. 

'•' Are you returning immediately to Worcester T ji 
said Lady Leslie, a widow residing near that city, 
to a young officer who was paying her a morning 
visit. — " I am ; can I do any thing for you there ?" 
— " Yes ; you can do me a great kindness. My 
confidential servant, Baynes, is gone out for the 
day and night ; and I do not like to trust my new 
footman, of whom I know nothing, to put this letter 
in the post-office, as it contains a fifty-pound note." 
— " Indeed ! that is a large sum to trust to the 
post."—" Yes ; but I am told it is the safest con- 
veyance. It is, however, quite necessary that a 
person whom I can trust should put the letter in 
the box." — " Certainly," replied Captain Free- 
land. Then, with an air that showed he consider- 
ed himself 'as a person to be trusted, he deposited 
the letter in safety in his pocket-book, and took 
leave : promising he would return to dinner the 
next day which was Saturday. 

On his road, Freeland met some of his brother- 
officers, w T ho were going to pass the day and night 
at Great Malvern ; and as they earnestly pressed 
him to accompany them, he wholly forgot the letter 
entrusted to his care ; and, having despatched his 
servant to Worcester, for his sac-de-nuit* and oth- 
er things, he turned back with his companions, and 
passed the rest of the day in that sauntering but 
amusing idleness, that dolce far niente^ which may 



Night ha? t Sweet doing nothing. 



THE BANK NOTE. 65 

be reckoned comparatively virtuous, if it leads to 
the forgetfulness of little duties only, and is not at- 
tended by the positive infringement of greater ones. 
But, in not putting this important letter into the 
post, as he had engaged to do, Freeland violated a 
real duty ; and he might have put it in at Malvern, 
had not the rencounter with his brother-officers 
banished the commission given him entirely from 
his thoughts. Nor did he remember it till, as they 
rode through the village the next morning, on their 
way to Worcester, they met Lady Leslie walking 
in the road. 

At sight of her, Freeland recollected with shame 
and confusion that he had not fulfilled the charge 
committed to him ; and fain would he have passed 
her unobserved ; for, as she was a woman of high 
fashion, great talents, and some severity, he was 
afraid that his negligence, if avowed, would not 
only cause him to forfeit her favour, but expose 
him to her powerful sarcasm. 

To avoid being recognised was, however, impos- 
sible ; and as soon as Lady Leslie saw him, she 
exclaimed, ** Oh ! Captain Freeland, I am so glad 
to see you \ I have been quite uneasy concerning 
my letter since I gave it to yonr care ; for it was of 
such consequence ! Did you put it into the post 
yesterday ?" " Certainly," replied Freeland, 
hastily, and in the hurry of the moment, ** Certain- 
ly. How could you, dear Madam, doubt my obe- 
dience to your commands ?" — " Thank you ! 
thank you !" cried she, " How you have relieved 
my mind i" He had so ; but he had painfully 
burthened his own. To be sure it was only a white 
He, — the lie of fear. Still he was not used to 
otter falsehood ; and he felt the meanness an4 de~ 
6* 



66 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING 

gradation of this. He had yet to learn that jt was 
mischievous also ; and that none can presume to 
say where the consequences of the most apparently 
trivial lie will end. As soon as Freeland parted 
with Lady Leslie, he bade his friends farewell, and, 
putting spur to his horse, scarcely slackened his 
pace till he had reached a general post-office, and 
deposited the letter in safety. " Now, then," 
thought he, " I hope I shall be able to return and 
dine with Lady Leslie, without shrinking from her 
penetrating eye." 

He found her, when he arrived, very pensive 
and absent ; so much so, that she felt it necessary 
to apologize to her guests, informing them that Mary 
Benson, an old servant of hers, who was very dear 
to her, was seriously ill, and painfully circumstan- 
ced ; and that she feared she had not done her du- 
ty by her. "'.To tell you the truth, Captain Free- 
land," said she, speaking to him in a low voice, 
" I blame myself for not having sent for my con- 
fidential servant, who was not very far off, and 
despatched him with the money, instead of trusting 
it to the post." — " It would have been better to 
have done so, certainly /" replied Freeland, deeply 
blushing. " Yes ; for the poor woman, to whom 
f sent it, is not only herself on the point of being 
confined, but she has a sick husband, unable to be 
moved ; and as (but owing to no fault of his)he is on 
the point of bankruptcy, his cruel landlord has de- 
clared that, if they do not pay their rent by to-morrow, 
he will turn them out into the street, and seize the 
very bed they lie on ! However, as you put the 
letter into the post yesterday, they must get the fif- 
ty-pound note to day, else they could not ; for 
there is no delivery of letters in London on a Sun- 
day, you know." " True, very true," replied 



THE BANK NOTE. 6? 

Freeland, in atone which he vainly tried to render 
steady. " Therefore," continued Lady Leslie, 
" if you had told me, when we met, that the letter 
was not gone, I should have recalled Baynes, and 
sent him off by the mail to London ; and then he 
would have reached Somerstown, where the Ben- 
sons live, in good time ; — but now, though I own it 
would be a comfort to me to send him, for fear of 
accident, I could not get him back again soon 
enough ; — therefore, I must let things take their 
chance ; and, as letters seldom miscarry, the only 
danger is, that the note may be taken out." She 
might have talked an hour without answer or inter- 
ruption ; — for Freeland was too much shocked, too 
much conscience-stricken, to reply ; as he found 
that he had not only told a falsehood, but that, if he 
had had moral courage enough to tell the truth, the 
mischievous negligence, of which he had been guil- 
ty, could have been repaired ; but now, as Lady 
Leslie said, " it was too late !" 

But, while Lady Leslie became talkative, and 
able to perform her duties to her friends, after she 
had thus unburthened her mind to Freeland, he 
grew every minute more absent, and more taciturn ; 
and, though he could not eat with appetite, he threw 
down, rather than drank, repeated glasses of hock 
and champagne, to enable him to rally his spirits ; 
but in vain. K A naturally ingenuous and generous 
nature cannot shake off the first compunctious visit- 
ings of conscience for having committed an unwor- 
thy action, and having also been the means of in- 
jury to another. All on a sudden, however, his 
countenance brightened ; and as soon as the ladies 
left the table, he started up, left his compliments 
and excuses with Lady Leslie's nephew, who pre- 
sided at dinner ; said he had a pressing call to 



oS ILLUSTRATIONS OF L5TING. 

Worcester ; and, when there, as the London mail 
was gone, he threw himself into a postchaise, and 
set off for Somerstown, which Lady Leslie had 
named as the residence of Mary Benson. " At 
least," said Freeland to himself with a lightened 
heart, " I shall now have the satisfaction of doing 
all I can to repair my fault." But, owing to the 
delay occasioned by want of horses, and by finding 
the ostlers at the inns in bed, he did not reach Lon- 
don and the place of his destination till the wretch- 
ed family had been dislodged ; while the unhappy 
wife was weeping, not only over the disgrace of be- 
ing so removed, and for her own and her husband's 
increased illness in consequence of it, but from the 
agonizing suspicion that the mistress and friend, 
whom she had so long loved, and relied upon, had 
disregarded the tale of her sorrows, and had refused 
to relieve her necessities ! Freeland soon found a 
oonductor to the mean lodging in which the Ben- 
sons had obtained shelter ; for they were well 
known ; and their hard fate was generally pitied ; 
— but it was some time before he could speak, as 
he stood by their bedside- — he was choked with 
painful emotion at first ; with pleasing emotions af- 
terwards : — for his conscience smote him for the 
pain he had occasioned, and applauded him for the 
pleasure which he came to bestow. — " I come," 
said he, at length, (while the sufferers waited in al- 
most angry wonder, to hear his reason for thus in- 
truding on them) " I come to tell you, from your 
kind friend, Lady Leslie," — " Then she has not 
forgotten me !" screamed out the poor woman, al- 
most gasping for breath. " No, to be sure not : — 
she could not forget you ; she was incapable . . . ." 
here his voice wholly failed him. " Thank heav- 
en !" cried she, tears trickling down her pale cheek. 



THE BANK NOTE. 69 

" I can bear any thing now ; for that was the bit- 
terest part of all !" — " My good woman," said 
Freeland, " it was owing to a mistake : — pshaw ! 
no : it was owing to my fault, that you did not re- 
ceive a £50 note by the post yesterday :" — 
" £50 !" cried the poor man, wringing his hands, 
" why that would have more than paid all we owed ; 
and I could have gone on with my business, and 
our lives would not have been risked, nor I dis- 
graced !" Freeland now turned away, unable to 
say a word more ; but recovering himself, he again 
drew near them ; and, throwing his purse to the 
agitated speaker, said " there ! get well ! only get 
well ! and whatever you want shall be yours ! or 
I shall never lose this horrible choking again while 
I live !" 

Freeland took a walk after this scene, and with 
hasty, rapid strides ; the painful choking being his 
companion very often during the course of it, — for 
he was haunted by the image of those whom he 
had disgraced ; — and he could not help remember- 
ing that,however blameable his negligence might be, 
it was nothing, either in sinfulness or mischief, to 
the lie told to conceal it ; and that, but for that lie 
of fear, the effects of his negligence might have 
been repaired in time. 

But he was resolved that he would not leave 
Somerstown till he had seen these poor people set- 
tled in a good lodging. He therefore hired a con- 
veyance for them, and superintended their removal 
that evening to apartments full of every necessary 
comfort. t( My good friends," said he, " I can- 
not recall the mortification and disgrace which you 
have endured through my fault ; but I trust that 
you will have gained, in the end, by leaving a cruel 
landlord, who had no pity for your unmerited pov- 



70 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

erty. Lady Leslie's note will, I trust, reach you 
to-morrow ; — but if not, I will make up the loss ; 
therefore be easy ! and when I go away, may I have 
the comfort of knowing that your removal has done 
you no harm !" 

He then, but not till then, had courage to write 
to Lady Leslie, and tell her the whole truth ; con- 
cluding his letter thus : 

" If your interesting proteges have not suffered 
in their health, I shall not regret what has happen- 
ed ; because I trust that it will be a lesson to me 
through life, and teach me never to tell even the 
most apparently trivial white lie again. How un- 
important this violation of truth appeared to me at 
the moment ! and how sufficiently motived ! as it 
was to avoid falling in your estimation ; but it was, 
you see, overruled for evil ; — and agony of mind, 
disgrace, and perhaps risk of life, were the conse- 
quences of it to innocent individuals ; — not to men- 
tion my own pangs ; — the pangs of an upbraiding 
conscience. But forgive me, my dear Lady Leslie. 
However, I trust that this evil, so deeply repented 
of, will be blessed to us all ; but it will be long be- 
fore I forgive myself." 

Lady Leslie was delighted with this candid let- 
ter, though grieved by its painful details, while she 
viewed with approbation the amends which her 
young friend had made, and his modest disregard 
of his own exertions. 

The note arrived in safety ; and Freeland left 
the afflicted couple better in health, and quite hap- 
py in mind ; — as his bounty and Lady Leslie's had 
left them nothing to desire in a pecuniary point of 
view. 

When Lady Leslie and he met, she praised his 
virtue, while she blamed his fault ; and they forti- 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 71 

fied each other in the wise and moral resolution, 
never to violate truth again, even on the slightest 
Occasion ; as,a lie, when told, however unimportant 
it may at the time appear, is like an arrow shot 
over a house, whose course is unseen, and may be 
unintentionally the cause, to spme one, of agony or 
death. 



CHAPTER V- 

LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE > 

These are lies which are occasioned by a selfish 
dread of losing favour, and provoking displeasure, 
by speaking the truth, rather than by real benevo- 
lence. Persons, calling themselves benevolent, 
withhold disagreeable truths, and utter agreeable 
falsehoods, from a wish to give pleasure, or to 
avoid giving pain. If you say that you are looking 
ill, they tell you that you are looking well. If you 
express a fear that you are growing corpulent, they 
say you are only just as fat as you ought to be. If 
you are hoarse in singing, and painfully conscious 
of it, they declare that they did not perceive it. 
And this not from the desire of flattering you, or 
from the malignant one of wishing to render you ri- 
diculous, by imposing on your credulity, but from 
the desire of making you pleased with yourself. In 
short, they lay it down as a rule, that you must 
never scruple to sacrifice the truth, when the al- 
ternative is giving the slightest pain or mortification 
to any one. 



72 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

I shall leave my readers to decide whether the 
lies of fear or of benevolence preponderate, in the 
following trifling, but characteristic anecdote. 



A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 

Most mistresses of families have a family receipt- 
book ; and are apt to believe that no receipts are 
so good as their own. 

With one of these notable ladies a young house- 
keeper went to pass a few days, both at her town 
and country-house. The hostess was skilled, not 
only in culinary lore, but in economy ; and was in 
the habit of setting on her table, even when not 
alone, whatever her taste or carefulness had led 
her to pot, pickle, or preserve, for occasional use. 

Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, a 
dish of potted sprats was set before the lady of 
the house, who, expatiating on their excellence, 
derived from a family receipt of a century old, 
pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of them. 

The dish was as good as much salt and little 
spice could make it ; but it had one peculiarity ; — 
it had a strong flavour of garlick, and to garlick the 
poor guest had a great dislike. 

But she was a timid woman ; and good-breed- 
ing, and what she called benevolence, said, " per- 
severe a swallow," though her palate said, " no." 
" Is it not excellent ?" said the hostess. — " Very ;" 
faltered out the half-suffocated guest ; — and this 
was lie the first. " Did you ever eat any thing 
like it before ?" — " Never," replied the other more 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 1o 

"firmly ; for then she knew that she spoke the truth, 
and longing to add, " and I hope I never shall eat 
any thing like it again." — " I will give you the 
receipt," said the lady, kindly ; " it will be of use 
to you as a young housekeeper ; for it is economi- 
cal, as well as good, and serves to make out, when 
we have a scrap-dinner. My servants often dine 
on it." — " I wonder you can get any servants to 
live with you," thought the guest ; " but I dare 
say you do not get any one to stay long !" — " You 
do not, however, eat as if you liked it." — " Oh yes, 
indeed, I do, very much," (lie the second) she re- 
plied ; " but you forget I have already eaten a 
good dinner:" (lie the third. Alas ! what had be- 
nevolence, so called, to answer for on this occa- 
sion !) 

" Well, I am delighted to find that you like my 
sprats," said the flattered hostess, while the cloth 
was removing ; adding, " John ! do not let those 
sprats be eaten in the kitchen !" an order which the 
guest heard with indescribable alarm. 

The next day they were to set off for the coun- 
try-house, or cottage. When they were seated in 
the carriage, a large box was put in, and the guest 
fancied see smelt garlick ; but 

u . . . . where ignorance is bliss, 
" 'Tis folly to be wise." 

She therefore asked no questions ; but tried to 
enjoy the present, regardless of the future. At a 
certain distance they stopped to bait the horses. 
There the guest expected that they should get out, 
and take some refreshment ; but her economical 
companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, ob- 
served, " I always sit in the carnage on these oc- 



74 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

casions. If one gets out, the people at the inn ex- 
pect one to order a luncheon. I therefore take 
mine with me." So saying, John was summoned 
to drag the carriage out of sight of the inn windows. 
He then unpacked the box, took out of it knives 
and forks, plates, &c, and also a jar, which, im- 
pregnating the air with its effluvia, even before it 
was opened, disclosed to the alarmed guest that its 
contents were the dreaded sprats ! 

" Alas !" thought she, " Pandora's box was no- 
thing to this ! for in that, Hope remained behind ; 
but, at the bottom of this, is Despair !" In vain 
did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth) that 
" she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she 
never ate in the morning." Her hostess would 
take no denial. However, she contrived to get a 
piece of sprat down, enveloped in bread ; and the 
rest she threw out of the window, when her com- 
panion was looking another way — who, on turning 
round, exclaimed, " soy you have soon despatched 
the fish ! let me give you another ; do not refuse, 
because you think they are nearly finished ; I as- 
sure you there are several left ; and (delightful in- 
formation !) we shall have a fresh supply to-mor- 
row !" However, this time she was allowed to 
know when she had eaten enough ; and the travel- 
lers proceeded to their journey's end. 

This day, the sprats did not appear at dinner ; — 
but, there being only a few left, they were kept for 
a bonne louche, and reserved for supper ! a meal, 
of which, this evening, on account of indisposition, 
the hostess did not partake, and was therefore at 
liberty to attend entirely to the wants of her guest, 
who would fain have declined eating also, but it was 
impossible ; she had just declared that she was 
quite well, and had often owned that she enjoyed a 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 75 

piece of supper after an early -dinner. There was 
therefore no retreat from the maze in which her in- 
sincerity had involved her ; and eat she must : but, 
when she again smelt on her plate the nauseous 
composition which being near the bottom of the pot, 
was more disagreeable than ever, human patience 
and human infirmity could bear no more ; the 
scarcely tasted morsel fell from her lips, and she 
rushed precipitately into the open air, almost dis- 
posed to execrate, in her heart, potted sprats, the 
good breeding of her officious hostess, and even 
Benevolence itself. 



Some may observe, on reading this story, "What 
a foolish creature the guest must have been ! and 
how improbable it is that any one should scruple to 
say, the dish is disagreeable, and, I hate garlick !" 
But it is my conviction that the guest, on this occa- 
sion, exhibited only a slightly-exaggerated speci- 
men of the usual conduct of those who have been 
taught to conduct themselves wholly by the artifi- 
cial rules of civilized society, of which, generally 
speaking, falsehood is the basis. 

Benevolence is certainly one of the first of vir- 
tues ; and its result is an amiable aversion to wound 
the feelings of others, even in trifles ; therefore be- 
nevolence and politeness may be considered as the 
same thing ; but Worldly Politeness is only a 
copy of benevolence. Benevolence is gold : this 
politeness a paper currency, contrived as its substi- 
tute ; as society, being aware that benevolence is 
as rare as it is precious, and that few are able to 
distinguish, in any thing, the false from the true, re- 
solved, in lieu of benevolence, to receive worldly 



76 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 



comes, heartless regrets, false approbations, and 
treacherous smiles ; those alluring seemings, which 
shine around her brow, and enable her to pass for 
Benevolence herself. 

But how must the religious and the moral dis- 
like the one, though they venerate the other ! The 
kindness of the worldly Polite only lives its little 
hour in one's presence ; but that of the Benevolent 
retains its life aud sweetness in one's absenee. The 
worldly polite will often make the objects of their 
greatest flatteries and attentions, when present, the 
butt of their ridicule as soon as they see them no 
more ; — while the benevolent hold the characters 
and qualities of their associates in a sort of holy 
keeping at all times, and are as indulgent to the 
absent as they were attentive to the present. The 
kindness of the worldly polite is the gay and pleas- 
ing flower worn in the bosom, as the ornament of a 
few hours ; then suffered to fade, and thrown by, 
when it is wanted no longer ; — but that of the real- 
ly benevolent is like the fresh-springing evergreen, 
which blooms on through all times, and all seasons, 
unfading in beauty, and undiminishing in sweetness. 
But, it may be asked, whether 1 do not admit that 
the principle of never wounding the self-love or 
feelings of any one is a benevolent principle ; and 
whether it be not commendable to act on it continu- 
ally. Certainly ; if sincerity goes hand in hand 
with benevolence. But where is your benevolence, 
if you praise those, to their faces, whom you abuse 
as soon as they have left you ? — where your be- 
nevolence, if you welcome those, with smiling ur- 
banity, whom you see drive off with a " Well ; I 
am glad they are gone ?" and how common is it, 
to hear persons, who think themselves very moral-. 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 77 

and very kind, begin, as soon as their guests are 
departed, and even when they are scarcely out of 
hearing, to criticise their dress, their manners, and 
their characters ; while the poor unconscious visit- 
ers, the dupes of their deceitful courtesy, are go- 
ing home delighted with their visit, and saying what 
a charming evening they have passed, and what 
agreeable and kind-hearted persons the master and 
mistress of the house, and their family are !" — 
Surely, then, I am not refining too much when I 
assert that the cordial seemings, which these de- 
luded guests were received, treated, and parted 
with, were any thing rather than the lies of be- 
nevolence. I also believe that those who scruple 
not, even from well-intentioned kindness, to utter 
spontaneous falsehoods, are not gifted with much 
judgment and real feeling, nor are they given to 
think deeply ; for the virtues are nearly related, 
and live in the greatest harmony with each other ; 
— consequently, sincerity and benevolence must 
always agree, and not, as is often supposed, be at 
variance with each other. The truly benevolent 
feel, and cultivate, such candid and kind views of 
those who associate with them, that they need not 
fear to be sincere in their answers ; and if obliged 
to speak an unwelcome truth, or an unwelcome 
opinion, their well-principled kindness teaches them 
some way of making what they utter palatable ; 
and benevolence is gratified without injury to sin- 
cerity. 

It is a common assertion, that society is so con- 
stituted, that it is impossible to tell the truth always : 
— but, if those who possess good sense would use 
it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way of 
spontaneous truth as they do to justify themselves in 
7* 



78 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 

the practice of falsehood, the difficulty would van- 
ish. Besides, truth is so uncommon an ingredient 
in society, that lew are acquainted with it sufficient- 
ly to know whether it be admissible or not. A 
pious and highly-gifted man said, in my presence, 
to a friend whom I esteem and admire, and who 
had asserted that truth cannot always be told in so- 
ciety, " Has any one tried it f — We have all of us, in 
the course of our lives, seen dead birds of Paradise 
so often, that we should scarcely take the trouble of 
going to see one now. But the Marquis of Has- 
tings has brought over a living bird of Paradise ; 
and every one is eagerly endeavouring to procure 
a sight of that. I therefore prognosticate that, 
were spontaneous truth to be told in society, where 
it now is rarely, if ever, heard, real, living truth 
would be as much sought after, and admired, as the 
living bird of Paradise."* 



The following anecdote exhibits that Lie which 
some may call the lie of Benevolence, and others, 
the lie oifear ; — that is, the dread of losing favour, 
by wounding a person's self-love. I myself de- 
nominate it the latter. 



* I fear that I have given the words weakly and imperfectly ; 
but I know I am correct, as to the sentiment and the illustration 
The speaker was Edward Irving. 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 

,/" s 

A young lady, who valued herself on her be- 
nevolence and good-breeding, and had as much re- 
spect for truth as those who live in the world usual- 
ly have, was invited by an authoress, whose favour 
she coveted, and by whose attention she was flat- 
tered, to come and hear her read a manuscript 
tragi-comedy. The other auditor was an old lady, 
who, to considerable personal ugliness, united 
strange grimaces, and convulsive twitchings of the 
face, chiefly the result of physical causes. 

The authoress read in so affected and dramatic a 
manner, that the young lady's boasted benevolence 
had no power to curb her propensity to laughter ; 
which being perceived by the reader, she stopped 
in angry consternation, and desired to know wheth- 
er she laughed at her, or her composition. At first 
she was too much fluttered to make any reply ; — 
but as she dared not own the truth, and had no 
scruple against being guilty of deception, she 
cleverly resolved to excuse herself by a practical 
lie. She therefore trod on her friend's foot, elbowed 
her, and, by winks and signs, tried to make her be- 
lieve that it was the grimaces of her opposite neigh- 
bour, who was quietly knitting and twitching as 
usual, which had had such an effect on her risible 
faculties ; and the deceived authoress, smiling her- 
self when her young guest directed her eye to her 
unconscious vis-a-vis, resumed her reading with a 
lightened brow and increased energy. 

This added to the young lady's amusement ; as 
she could now indulge her risibility occasionally at 
the authoress's expence, without exciting her sus- 



80 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

picions ; especially as the manuscript was some- 
times intended to excite smiles, if not laughter ; 
and the self-love of the writer led her to suppose 
that her hearer's mirth was the result of her comic 
powers. But the treacherous gratification of the 
auditor was soon at an end. The manuscript was 
meant to move tears as well as smiles ; but as the 
matter became more pathetic, the manner became 
more ludicrous ; and the youthful hearer could no 
more force a tear than she could restrain a laugh ; 
till the mortified authoress, irritated into forgetful- 
ness of all feeling and propriety, exclaimed, " In- 
deed, Mrs. , I must desire you to move your 

seat, and sit where Miss does not see you ; 

for you make such queer grimaces that you draw 
her attention and cause her to laugh when she 
should be listening to me." The erring but hu- 
mane girl was overwhelmed with dismay at the un- 
expected exposure ; and when the poor infirm old 
lady replied, in a faultering tone, " Is she indeed 
laughing at me ?" she could scarcely refrain from 
telling the truth, and assuring her that she was in- 
capable of such cruelty. " Yes ;" rejoined the 
authoress, in a paroxysm of wounded self-love, 
" She owned to me soon after she began, that you 
occasioned her ill-timed mirth ; and when I look- 
ed at you, I could hardly help smiling myself ; but 
I am sure you could help making such faces, if you 
would." — " Child !" cried the old lady, while tears 
of wounded sensibility trickled down her pale 
cheeks, " and you, my unjust friend, I hope and 
trust that I forgive you both ; but, if ever you 
should be paralytic yourselves, may you remember 
this evening, and learn to repent of having been 
provoked to laugh by the physical weakness of a 
palsied old woman !" The indignant authoress was 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 81 

now penitent, subdued, and ashamed, — and earn- 
estly asked pardon for her unkindness ; but the 
young offender, whose acted lie had exposed her 
to seem guilty of a fault which she had not commit- 
ted, was in an agony to which expression was inad- 
equate. But, to exculpate herself was impossible : 
and she could only give her wounded victim tear 
for tear. 

To attend to a farther perusal of the manuscript 
was impossible. The old lady desired that her 
carriage should come round directly ; the author- 
ess locked up her composition, that had been so ill 
received ; and the young lady, who had been 
proud of the acquaintance of each, became an ob- 
ject of suspicion and dislike both to the one and the 
other ; since the former considered her to be of a 
cruel and unfeeling nature, and the latter could not 
conceal from herself the mortifying truth, that her 
play must be wholly devoid of interest, as it ha-d 
utterly failed either to rivet or to attract her young 
auditor's attention. 

But, though this girl lost two valued acquaintan- 
ces by acting a lie (a harmless white lie, as it is 
called,) I fear she was not taught or amended by 
the circumstance ; but deplored her want of luck, 
rather than her want of integrity ; and, had her de- 
ception met with the success whieh she expected, 
she would probably have boasted of her ingenious 
artifice to her acquaintance ; — nor can I help be- 
lieving that she goes on in the same way whenever 
she is tempted to do so, and values herself on the 
lies of selfish fear, which she dignifies by the 
name of lies of benevolence. 

It is curious to observe that the kindness which 
prompts to really erroneous conduct cannot con- 
tinue to bear even a remote connexion with real 



$2 ILLUSTEATIONS OF LYING. 

benevolence. The mistaken girl, in the anecdote 
related above, begins with what she calls, a virtuous 
deception. She could not wound the feelings of 
the authoress by owning that she laughed at her 
mode of reading : she therefore accused herself of 
a much worse fault ; that of laughing at the person- 
al infirmities of a fellow-creature ; and then, find- 
ing that her artifice enabled her to indulge her 
sense of the ridiculous with impunity, she at length 
laughs treacherously and systematically, because 
she dares do so, and not involuntarily, as she did 
at first, at her unsuspecting friend. Thus such hol- 
low unprincipled benevolence as hers soon degen- 
erated into absolute malevolence. But, had this 
girl been a girl of principle and of real benevolence, 
she might have healed her friend's vanity at the 
same time that she wounded it, by saying, after she 
had owned that her mode of reading made her 
laugh, that she was now convinced of the truth of 
what she had often heard ; namely, that authors 
rarely do justice to their own works, when they 
read them aloud themselves, however well they 
may read the works of others ; because they are 
naturally so nervous on the occasion, that they are 
laughably violent, because painfully agitated. 

This reply could not have offended her friend 
greatly if at all ; and it might have led her to mod- 
erate her outre manner of reading. She would in 
consequence have appeared to more advantage ; 
and the interests of real benevolence, namely, the 
doing good to a fellow-creature, would have been 
served, and she would not, by a vain attempt to 
save a friend's vanity from being hurt, have been 
the means of wounding the feelings of an afflicted 
woman ; have incurred the charge of inhumanity, 



LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 83 

which she by no means deserved ; and have vain- 
ly, as well as grossly, sacrificed the interests of 
Truth. 



CHAPTER VI. 

LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 

I have now before me a very copious subject : 
and shall begin by that most common lie of con- 
venience ; the order to servants, to say " Not at 
home ;" a custom which even some moralists de- 
fend, because they say that it is not lying ; as it 
deceives no one. But this I deny ; — as I know it 
is often meant to deceive. I know that if the per- 
son, angry at being refused admittance, says, at the 
next meeting with the denied person, " I am sure 
you were at home such a day, when I called, but 
did not choose to see me" the answer is, " Oh 
dear, no ; — how can you say so ? I am sure I was 
not at home ; — for I am never denied to you ;" 
though the speaker is conscious all the while that 
" not at home " was intended to deceive, as well as 
to deny. But, if it be true that " not at home " is 
not intended to deceive, and is a form used merely 
to exclude visiters with as little trouble as possible, 
I would ask whether it were not just as easy to say, 
'( my master, or my mistress, is engaged ; and can 
see no one this morning." Why have recourse 
even to the appearance of falsehood, when truth 
would answer every purpose just as well 2 

But if " not at home " be understood amongst 
equals, merely as a legitimate excuse, it still is high- 



84 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ly objectionable ; because it must have a most per- 
nicious effect on the minds observants, who cannot 
be supposed parties to this implied compact 
amongst their superiors, and must therefore under- 
stand the order literally; which is, " go, and lie 
for my convenience !" How then, I ask in the 
name of justice and common sense, can I, after giv- 
ing such an order, resent any lie which servants 
may choose to tell me for their own convenience., 
pleasure, or interest ? 

Thoughtless and injudicious (I do not like to 
add,) unprincipled persons, sometimes say to ser- 
vants, when they have denied their mistress, " Oh 
fye ! how can you tell me such a fib without blush- 
ing ? I am ashamed of you ! You know your 
lady is at home ; — well ; — I am really shocked at 
your having so much effrontery as to tell such a lie 
with so grave a face ! But, give my compliments 
to your misstress, and tell her, I hope that she will 
see me the next time I call ;" — and all this uttered 
in a laughing manner, as if this moral degradation 
of the poor servant were an excellent joke ! But 
on these occasions, what can the effect of such jok- 
ing be on the conscious liars ? It must either lead 
them to think as lightly of truth as their reprovers 
themselves, (since they seem more amused than 
shocked at the detected violation of it,) or they will 
turn away distressed in conscience, degraded in 
their own eyes, for having obeyed their employer, 
and feeling a degree of virtuous indignation against 
those persons who have, by their immoral command, 
been the means of their painful degradation ; — nay, 
their master and mistress will be for ever lowered 
in their servant's esteem ; they will feel that the 
teacher of a lie is brought down on a level with the 
utterer of it ; and the chances are that, during the 



LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 85 

rest of their service, they will without scruple use 
against their employers the dexterity which they 
have taught them to use against others.* 



* As I feel a great desire to lay before my readers the strong- 
est arguments possible, to prove the vicious tendency of even 
the most tolerated lie of convenience ; namely, the order to ser- 
vants to say " Wot at home ;" and as I wholly distrust my own 
powers of arguing with effect on this, or any other subject, I give 
the following extracts from Dr. Chalmers's " Discourses on the 
Application of Christianity to the Commercial and Ordinary Af- 
fairs of Life;"--discouises which abundantly and eloquently prove 
the sinfulness of deceit in general, and the fearful responsibility 
incurred by all who depart, even in the most common occur- 
rences, from that undeviating practice of tiuth which is every 
where enjoined on Christians in the pages of holy writ. But I 
shall, though reluctantly, confine myself in these extracts to 
what bears immediately on the subject before us i must how- 
ever state, in justice to myself, that my remarks on the same 
points were not only written, but printed and published, in a 
periodical work, before I knew that Dr. Chalmers had written 
the book in question. 

" You put a lie into the mouth of a dependant, and that for 
the purpose of protecting your time from such an encroachment 
as you would not feel to be convenient, or agreeable. Look to 
the little account that is made of a brother's and sister's eterni- 
ty. Behold the guilty task ths.t is thus unmercifully laid upon 
one who is shortly to appear before the judgment seat of Christ. 
Think of the entanglement that is thus made to beset the path 
of a creature who is unperishable. That, at the shrine of Mam- 
mon such a bloody sacrifice should be rendered, by some of his 
unrelenting votaries, is not to be wondered at ; hut, that the 
shrine of elegance and fashion should be bathed in blood : — that 
soft and sentimental ladyship should put forth her hand to such 
an enormity ; — that she who can sigh so gently, and shed her 
graceful tear over the sufferings of others, should thus be acces- 
sary to the second and more awful death of her own domestics ; 
— that one, who looks the mildest and loveliest of human beings, 
should exact obedience to a mandate which carries wrath, and 
tribulation, and anguish in its train. Oh ! how it should con- 
firm every Christian in his defiance of the authority of fashion, 
and lead him to spurn at all its folly and all its worthlessness. 
And it is quite in vain to say that the servant, whom you thus 
employ as the deputy of your falsehood, can possibly execute 
the commission without the conscience being at all tainted or 
defiled by it ; that a simple cottage maid can so sophisticate the 
8 



86 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

But amongst the most frequent lies of con- 
venience are those which are told relative to en- 
gagements, which they who make them are averse 
to keep. " Headachs, bad colds, unexpected vis- 
iters from the country," all these, in their turn, are 
used as lies of convenience, and gratify indolence, 
or caprice, at the expense of integrity. 

How often have I pitied the wives and daughters 
of professional men, for the number of lies which 
they are obliged to tell, in the course of the year ! 



matter, as, without any violence to her original principles, to 
utter the language of what she assuredly knows to be a down- 
right lie ; — that she, humble and untutored soul ! can sustain 
no injury, when thus made to tamper with the plain English of 
these realms ;— that she can at all satify herself how, by the 
prescribed utterance of " not at home," she is not pronouncing 
such words as are substantially untrue, but merely using them 
in another and perfectly understood meaning ; — and which, ac 
cording to their modern translation, denote that the person, of 
whom she is thus speaking, is securely lurking in one of the 
most secure and intimate of its receptacles. 

"You may try to darken this piece of casuistry as you will, 
and work up your minds into the peaceable conviction that it is 
all right, and as it should be. But, be very certain that, where 
the moral sense of your domestic is not already overthrown, 
there is, at least, otae bosom within which you have raised a war 
of doubts and difficulties, and where, if the victory be on your 
side, it will be on the side of him who is the great enemy of 
righteousness. 

"There is, at least, one pprson, along the line of this convey- 
ance of deceit, who condemneth herself in that which she al- 
loweth ; who, in the language of Paul, esteeming the practice to 
be unclean, to her will it be unclean ; who will perform her 
task with the offence of her own conscience, and to whom, 
therefore, it will indeed be evil ; who cannot render obedience 
in this matter to her earthly superior, but, by an act, in which 
ahe does not stand clear, and unconscious of guilt before God ; 
and with whom, therefore, the sad consequence of what we can 
call nothing else than a barbarous combination against the prin- 
ciples and prospects of the lower orders, is — that, as she has 
not cleaved fully unto the Lord, and has not kept by the service 
of the one Master, and has not forsaken all but His bidding, she 
cannot be the disciple of Christ. 






LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 87 

« Dr. is very sorry ; but he was sent for to a 

patient just as he was coming with me to your 
house." — " Papa's compliments, and he is very 
sorry ; but he was forced to attend a commission 
of bankruptcy ; but will certainly come, if he can, 
by-and-by," when the chances are, that the physi- 
cian is enjoying himself over his book and his fire, 
and the lawyer also, congratulating themselves on 
having escaped that terrible bore, a party, at the 
expence of teaching their wife, or daughter, or son, 



* And let us just ask a master or a mistress, who can thus 
make free with the moral principle of their servants in one in- 
stance, how they can look for pure or correct principle from 
them in other instances ? What right have they to complain of 
unfaithfulness against themselves, who have deliberately sedu- 
ced another into a habit of unfaithfulness against God ? Are 
they so utterly unskilled in the mysteries of our nature, as not to 
perceive that the servant whom you have taught to lie, has got- 
ten such rudiments of education at your hand, as that, without 
any further help, he can now teaeh himself to purloin ? — and 
yet nothing more frequent than loud and angry complainings 
against the treacheiy of servants ; as if, in the general wreck of 
their other principles, a principle of consideration for the good 
and interest of their employer, and who has at the same time 
been their seducer, was to survive in all its power and sensibili- 
ty. It is just such a retribution as was to be looked for. It is a 
recoil, upon their own heads, of the mischief which they them- 
selves have originated. It is the temporal part of the punish- 
ment which they have to bear for the sin of our text ; but not 
the whole of it : far better for them both that both person and 
property were cast into the sea ( than that they should stand the 
reckoning of that day, when called to give an account of the 
souls that they have murdered, and the blood of so mighty a 
destruction is required at their hands." 



These remarks at first made part of a chapter on the lie of 
convenience, but thinking them not suited to that period of my 
work, I took them out again, and not being able to introduce 
them in any subsequent chapter, because they treat of one par- 
ticular lie, and not of lying in general, I have been obliged to 
content myself with putting them in a note. 



88 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

to tell what they call, a white lie ! But, I would 
ask those fathers, and those mothers who make 
their children the bearers of similar excuses, 
whether after giving them such commissions, they 
could conscientiously resent any breach of veracity, 
or breach of confidence, or deception, committed 
by their children in matters of • more importance. 
" Ce rfest que le premier', pas qui coute" says the 
proverb ; and I believe that habitual, permitted, and 
encouraged lying, in little and seemingly unimpor- 
tant things, leads to want of truth and principle ia 
great and serious matters ; for when the barrier, or 
restrictive principle, is once thrown down, no one 
can say where a stop will be put to the inroads 
and the destruction. 

I forgot, in the first edition of my work, to no- 
tice one falsehood which is only too often uttered 
by young women in a ball-room ; but I shall now 
mention it with due reprehension, though I scarcely 
know under what head to class it. I think, how- 
ever, that it may be named without impropriety, 
one of the Lies of Convenience. 

But, I cannot do better than give an extract on 
this subject, from a letter addressed to me by a 
friend, on reading this book, in which she has had 
the kindness to praise, and the still greater kindness 
to admonish me.* She says, as follows : — " One 
falsehood that is very often uttered by the lips of 
youth, I trust not without a blush, you have passed 
unnoticed ; and, as I always considered it no venial 
one, I will take the present opportunity of pointing 



* Vide a (printed) letter addressed " to Mrs. Opie, with ob- 
servations on her recent publication." " Illustrations of Lying in 
all its Branches." The Authoress is Susan Reeve, wife of Dr. 
Reeve, M.D., and daughter of E. Bonhote of Bungay, authoress 
of many interesting publications. 



LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 89 

out its impropriety. A young lady, when asked 
by a gentleman to dance, whom she does not ap- 
prove, will, without hesitation, say, though unpro- 
vided with any other partner, " If I dance I am 
engaged ;" this positive untruth is calculated to 
wound the feelings of the person to whom it is ad- 
dressed, for it generally happens that such person 
discovers he has been deceived, as well as rejected. 
It is very seldom that young men, to whom it would 
really be improper that a lady should give her hand 
for the short time occupied in one or two dances, 
are admitted into our public places ; but, in such 
a case, could not a reference be made by her, to 
any friends who are present ; pride and vanity too 
often prompt the refusal, and, because the offered 
partner has not sufficiently sacrificed to the graces, 
is little versed " in the poetry of motion," or de- 
rives no consequence from the possession of rank, 
or riches, he is treated with what he must feel to 
be contempt. True politeness, which has its seat 
in the heart, would scorn thus to wound another, 
and the real votaries of sincerity would never so 
violate its rules to escape a temporary mortifica- 
tion." 

I shall only add, that I have entire unity of sen- 
timent with the foregoing extract. 

Here I beg leave to insert a short Tale, illustra^ 
tive of Lies of Convenience. 



8* 



90 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING, 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 

There are a great many match-makers in the 
world ; beings who dare to take on themselves the 
fearful responsibility of bringing two persons togeth- 
er into that solemn union which only death or guilt 
can dissolve ; and thus make themselves answer- 
able for the possible misery of two of their fellow- 
creatures. 

One of these busy match-makers, a gentleman 
named Byrome, was very desirous that Henry 
Sandford, a relation of his, should become a marri- 
ed man ; and he called one morning to inform him 
that he bad at length met with a young lady who 
would, he flattered himself, suit him in all respects 
as a wife. Henry Sandford was not a man of many 
words ; nor had he a high opinion of Byrome's 
judgment. He therefore only said, in reply, that 
he was willing to accompany his relation to the 
lady's house, where, on Byrome's invitation, he 
found that he was expected to drink tea. 

The young lady in question, whom I shall call 

Lydia L , lived with her widowed aunt, who 

had brought her and her sisters up, and supplied to 
them the place of parents, lost in their infancy. 
She had bestowed on them an expensive and showy 
education ; had, both by precept and example, 
given every worldly polish to their manners ; and 
had taught them to set off their beauty by tasteful 
and fashionable dress : — that is, she had done for 
them all that she thought was necessary to be done ; 
and she, as well as Byrome, believed that they pos- 
sessed every requisite to make the marriage state 
happy. 



PROJECTS DFEEATED. 91 

But Henry Sandford was not so easy to please. 
He valued personal beauty and external accom- 
plishments far below christian graces and moral vir- 
tues ; and was resolved never to unite himself to a 
woman whose conduct was not entirely under the 
guidance of a strict religious principle. 

Lydia L was not in the room when Sand- 
ford arrived, but he very soon had cause to doubt 
the moral integrity of her aunt and sisters ; for, 
on Byrome's saying, " I hope you are not to have 
any company but ourselves to-day," the aunt re- 
plied. " Oh, no ; we put off some company that 
we expected, because we thought you would like to 
be alone ;" and one of the sisters added, "Yes ; 

I wrote to the disagreeable D s, informing them 

that my aunt was too unwell, with one of her bad 
headachs, to see company ;" " and I," said the 

other, " called on the G s, and said that we 

wished them to come another day, because the 
.beaux, whom they liked best to meet were engag- 
ed."—" Admirable !" cried Byrome, " Let wo- 
men alone for excuses !" — while Sandford looked 
grave, and wondered how any one could think ad- 
mirable what to him appeared so reprehensible. 
" However," thought he, " Lydia had no share in 
this treachery and white lying, but may dislike 
them, as I do." Soon after she made her appear- 
ance, attired for conquest ; and so radiant did she 
seem in her youthful loveliness and grace,that Sand- 
ford earnestly hoped she had better principles than 
her sisters. 

Time fled on rapid wings ; and Byroine and the 
two elder sisters frequently congratulated each other 

that " the disagreeable D s and tiresome 

G s" had not been allowed to come, and de- 
stroy, as they would have done, the pleasure of the 



92 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

afternoon. But Lydia did not join in this conver- 
sation ; and Sandford was glad of it. The hours 
passed in alternate music and conversation, and also 
in looking over some beautiful drawings of Lydia's ; 
but the evening was to conclude with a French 
game a jeu-de-societe which Sandford was unac- 
quainted with, and which would give Lydia an op- 
portunity of telling a story gracefully. 

The L s lived in a pleasant village near the 

town where Sandford and Byrome resided ; and a 
long avenue of fine trees led to their door ; when, 
just as the aunt was pointing out their beauty to 
Sandford, she exclaimed, " Oh dear, girls, what 
shall we do ? there is Mrs. Carthew now entering 
the avenue ! Not at home, John ! not at home !" 
she eagerly vociferated. " My dear aunt, that will 
not do for her," cried the eldest sister ; for she will 
ask for us all in turn, and inquire where we are, 
that she may go after us." — " True," said the oth- 
er, " and if we admit her, she is so severe and 
methodistical, that she will spoil all our enjoyment." 
" However, in she must come," observed the 
aunt ; " for, as she is an old friend, I should not like 
to affront her." 

Sandford was just going to say, " If she be an 
old friend, admit her, by all means ;" when on 
looking at Lydia, who had heen silent all this time, 
and was, he flattered himself, of his way of think- 
ing he saw her put her finger archly to her nose,and 
heard her exclaim, " I have it ! there, there ; go 
all of you into the next room, and close the door !" 
she then bounded gracefully down the avenue, while 
Sandford, with a degree of pain which he could 
have scarcely thought possible, heard one of the 
sisters say to Byrome, " Ah ! Lydia is to be trust- 
ed ; she tells a white lie with such an innocent 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 93 

look, that no one can suspect her." " What a val- 
uable accomplishment," thought Sandford, " in a 
woman ! what a recommendation in a wife !" and 
he really dreaded the fair deceiver's return. 

She came back, " nothing doubting," and, smil- 
ing with great self-complacency, said, " It was very*' 
fortunate that it was I who met her ; for I have 
more presence of mind than you, my dear sisters. 

The good soul had seen the D s ; and hearing 

my aunt was ill, came to inquire concerning her. 
She wa£ even coming on to the house, as she saw 
no reason why she should not ; and 1, for a mo- 
ment, was at a loss how to keep her away, when I 
luckily recollected her great dread of infection, and 
told her that, as the typhus (ever was in the village, 
I feared it was only too possible that my poor aunt 
had caught it !" — " Capital !" cried the aunt and 
Byrome ! <; Really, Lydia, that was even out-doing 
yourself," cried her eldest sister. " Poor Car- 
thewy ! 1 should not wonder,if she came at all near 
the house, that she went home, and took to her bed 
from alarm !" 

Even Byrome was shocked at this unfeeling 
speech ; and could not help observing, that it would 
be hard indeed if such was the result, to a good 
old friend, of an affectionate inquiry. " True," re- 
plied Lydia, " and I hope and trust she will not 
really suffer ; but, though very good, she is very 
troublesome ; and could we but keep up the hum 
for a day or two, it would be such a comfort to us ! 
as she comes very often, and now cannot endure 
cards, or any music, but hymn-singing." 

" Then I am glad she was not admitted ;" said 
Byrome, who saw with pain, by Sandford's folded 
arms and grave countenance, that a change in his 
feelings towards Lydia had taken place. Nor was 



94 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

he deceived : — Sandford was indeed gazing intently, 
but not as before, with almost overpowering admira- 
tion, on the consciously-blushing object of it. No ; 
he was likening her, as he gazed, to the beautiful 
apples that are said to grow on the shores of the 
Dead Sea, which tempt the traveller to pluck, and 
eat, but are filled only with dust and bitter ashes. 

" But we are losing time," said Lydia ; " let 
us begin our French game !" Sandford coldly 
bowed assent ; but he knew not what she said ; he 
was so inattentive,that he had to forfeit continually ; 
— he spoke not ; — he smiled not ; — except with a 
sort of sarcastic expression ; and Lydia felt conscious 
that she had lost him, though she knew not why ; 
for her moral sense was too dull for her to conceive 
the effect which her falsehood, and want of feeling, 
towards an old and pious friend, had produced on 
him. This consciousness was a painful one, as 
Sandford was handsome, sensible, and rich ; there- 
fore, he was what match-seeking girls (odious vul- 
garity !) call a good catch. Besides, Byrome had 
told her that she might depend on making a con- 
quest of his relation, Henry Sandford. The even- 
ing, therefore, which began so brightly, ended in 
pain and mortification, both to Sandford and Lydia. 
The former was impatient to depart as soon as sup- 
per was over, and the latter, piqued, disappointed, 
and almost dejected, did not join her sisters in so- 
liciting him to stay. 

" Well," said Byrome, as soon as they left the 
house, " How do you like the beautiful and ac- 
complished Lydia ?" — " She is beautiful and ac- 
complished ; but that is all." — " Nay, 1 am sure 
you seemed to admire her exceedingly, till just 
now, and paid her more animated attention than I 
ever saw you pay any woman before." — " True .; 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 95 

but I soon found that she was as hollow-hearted as 
she is fair." — " Oh ! 1 suppose you mean the de- 
ception which she practised on the old lady. Well ; 
where was the great harm of that . ? she only told 
a white lie ; and nobody, that is not a puritan, 
scruples to do that, you know." 

" I am no puritan, as you term it ; yet I scruple 
it ; but, if I were to be betrayed into such mean- 
ness, (and no one perhaps can be always on his 
guard,) I should blush to have it known ; but this 
girl seemed to glory in her shame, and to be proud of 
the disgraceful readiness with which she uttered her 
falsehood." — "I must own that I was surprised she 
did not express some regret at being forced to do 
what she did, in order to prevent our pleasure from 
being spoiled." — " Why should she ? Like your- 
self she saw no harm in a white lie ; but, mark me, 
Byrome, the woman whom I marry shall not think 
there is such a thing as a white lie ; — she shall think 
all lies black ; because the intention of all lies is to 
deceive ; and, from the highest authority, we are 
forbidden to deceive one another. I assure you, 
that if I were married to Lydia, I should distrust 
her expressions of love towards me ; — I should 
suspect that she married my fortune, not me ; and 
that, whenever strong temptation offered, she would 
deceive me as readily as, for a very slight one in- 
deed, she deceived that kind friend who came on 
an errand of love, and was sent away alarmed, and 
anxious, by this young hypocrite's unblushing false- 
hood ! — Trust me, Byrome, that my wife shall be 
a strict moralist." — "What! a moral philosopher f" 
— # No ; a far better thing. She shall be a hum- 
ble relying christian ; — thence she will be capable 
f)f speaking the truth, even to her own condemna- 



96 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

tion ; — and, on all occasions, her fear of man will 
be wholly subservient to her fear of her Creator." 
" And, pray, how can you ever be able to assure 
yourself that any girl is this paragon ?" — " Surely, if 
what we call chance could so easily exhibit to me 

Lydia in all the ugliness of her falsehood, it 

may equally, one day or other, disclose to me some 
other girl in all the beauty of her truth. Till then, 
I hope, I shall have resolution enough to remain a 
bachelor." — " Then," replied Byrome, shaking his 
head, " I must bid you good night, an old bachelor 
in prospect and in perpetuity !" And as he return- 
ed his farewell, Sandford sighed to think that his 
prophecy was only too likely to be fulfilled ; since 
his observation had convinced him that a strict ad- 
herence to truth, on little as well as on great oc- 
casions, is, though one of the most important, the 
rarest of all virtues." 



CHAPTER VII. 



ON LIES OF INTEREST. 



These lies are very various, and are more excus- 
able, and less offensive, than many others. 

The pale ragged beggar, who, to add to the 
effect of his or her ill looks, tells of the large family 
which does not exist, has a strong motive to de- 
ceive in the penury which does ; — and one cannot 
consider as a very abandoned liar, the tradesman, 
who tells you he cannot afford to come down to the 
price which you offer, because he gave almost as 



THE SKREEST. 97 

much for the goods himself. It is not from per- 
sons like these that we meet with the most disgust- 
ing marks of interested falsehood. It is when ha- 
bitual and petty lying profanes the lips of those 
whom independence preserves from any strong 
temptation to violate truth, and whom religion and 
education might have taught to value it. 

The following story will illustrate the Lies of 
Interest. 



THE SKREEN, or « NOT AT HOME." 

The widow of Governor Atheling returned from 
the East Indies, old, rich, and childless ; and as 
she had none but very distant relations, her affec- 
tions naturally turned towards the earliest friends 
of her youth ; one of whom she found still living, 
and residing in a large country-town. 

She therefore hired a house and grounds adja- 
cent, in a village very near to that lady's abode, and 
became not only her frequent but welcome guest. 
This old friend was a widow in narrow circum- 
stances, with four daughters slenderly provided for ; 
and she justly concluded that, if she and her family 
could endear themselves to their opulent guest, they 
should in all probability inherit some of her proper- 
ty. In the meanwhile, as she never visited them 
withoutbringing with her,in great abundance,whatever 
was wanted for the table, and might therefore be said 
to contribute to their maintenance, without seeming 
to intend to do so, they took incessant pains to con- 
ciliate her more and more every day, by flatteries 
9 



98 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

which she did not see through, and attentions which 
she deeply felt. Still, the Livingstones were not 
in spirit united to their amiable guest. The sorrows 
of her heart had led her, by slow degrees, to seek 
refuge in a religious course of life ; and, spite of 
her proneness to self-deception, she could not con- 
ceal from herself that, on this most important sub- 
ject, the Livingstones had never thought seriously, 
and were, as yet, entirely women of the world. 
But still her heart longed to be attached to some- 
thing ; and as her starved affections craved some 
daily food, she suffered herself to love this plausi- 
ble, amusing, agreeable, and seemingly-affectionate 
family ; and she every day lived in hope, that, by 
her precepts and example, she should ultimately 
tear them from that " world they loved too well." 
Sweet and precious to their own souls, are the illu- 
sions of the good ; and the deceived East-Indian 
was happy, because she did not understand the true 
nature of the Livingstones. 

On the contrary, so fascinated was she by what 
she fancied they were, or might become, that she 
took very little notice of a shame-faced, awkward, 
retiring, silent girl, the only child of the dearest 
friend that her childhood and her youth had known, 
— and who had been purposely introduced to her 
only as Fanny Barnwell. For the Livingstones 
were too selfish, and too prudent, to let their rich 
friend know that this poor girl was the orphan of 
Fanny Beaumont. Withholding, therefore, the 
most important part of the truth, they only inform- 
ed her that Fanny Barnwell was an orphan, who 
was glad to live amongst her friends, that she might 
make her small income sufficient for her wants \ 
taking care not to add that she was mistaken in 
supposing that Fanny Beaumont, whose long si- 



THE SKREEN. *)9 

lence and subsequent death she had bitterly deplored, 
had died childless ; for that she had married a sec- 
ond husband, by whom she had the poor orphan in 
question, and had lived many years in sorrow and 
obscurity, the result of this imprudent marriage ; 
resolving, however, in order to avoid accidents, 
that Fanny's visit should not be of long duration. 
In the mean while, they confided in the security 
afforded them by what may be called their passive 
lie of interest. But, in order to make " as- 
surance doubly sure," they had also recourse to the 
active lie of interest ; and, in order to frighten 
Fanny from ever daring to inform their visiter that 
she was the child of Fanny Beaumont, they assur- 
ed her that that lady was so enraged against heir 
poor mother, for having married her unworthy fath- 
er that no one dared to mention her name to her ; 
because it never failed to draw from her the most 
violent abuse of her once dearest friend. " And 
you know, Fanny," they took care to add, " that 
you could not bear to hear your poor mother abus- 
ed." — " No ; that I could not, indeed," was the 
weeping girl's answer ; the Livingstones therefore 
felt safe and satisfied. However, it still might not 
be amiss to make the old lady dislike Fanny, if 
they could ; and they contrived to render the poor 
girl's virtue the means of doing her injury. 

Fanny's mother could not bequeath much money 
to her child ; but she had endeavoured to enrich 
her with principles and piety. Above all, she had 
impressed her with the strictest regard for truth ; 
— and the Livingstones artfully contrived to make 
her integrity the means of displeasing their East- 
Indian friend. 

This good old lady's chief failing was believing 
implicitly whatever was said in her commendation ; 



100 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

not that she loved flattery, but that she liked to be° 
lieve she had conciliated good-will ; and being sin- 
cere herself, she never thonght of distrusting the 
sincerity of others. 

Nor was she at all vain of her once fine person, 
and finer face, or improperly fond of dress. Still, 
from an almost pitiable degree of bonhommie, she 
allowed the Livingstones to dress her as they liked ; 
and, as they chose to make her wear fashionable 
and young-looking attire, in which they declared 
that she looked " so handsome ! and so well !" she 
believed they were the best judges of what was 
proper for her, and always replied, " Well, dear 
friends, it is entirely a matter of indifference to me ; 
so dress me as you please ;" while the Living- 
stones, not believing that it was a. matter of indiffer- 
ence, used to laugh, as soon as she was gone, at her 
obvious credulity. 

But this ungenerous and treacherous conduct 
excited such strong indignation in the usually gen- 
tle Fanny, that she could not help expressing her 
sentiments concerning it ; and by that means made 
them the more eager to betray her into offending 
their unsuspicious friend. They therefore asked 
Fanny, in her presence, one day, whether their 
dear guest did not dress most becomingly ? 

The poor girl made sundry sheepish and awk- 
wark contortions, now looking down, and then look- 
ing up ; — unable to lie, yet afraid to tell the truth. — 
" Why do you not reply, Fanny ?" said the artful 
questioner. " Is she not well dressed ?" — " Not 
in my opinion," faltered out the distressed girl. 
" And, pray, Miss Barnwell," said the old lady, 
" what part of my dress do you disapprove ?" Af- 
ter a pause, Fanny took courage to reply, " all of 
it, madam."— " Why f do yon think it too young 



THE SKREEN. 101 

for me ?" — " I do." — " A plain-spoken young per- 
son that !" she observed in a tone of pique ; — 
while the Livingstones exclaimed, " impertinent ! 
ridiculous !" — and Fanny was glad to leave the 
room, feeling excessive pain at having been forced 
to wound the feelings of one whom she wished to 
be permitted to love, because she had once been 
her mother's dearest friend. After this scene, the 
Livingstones, partly from the love of mischief, and 
partly from the love of fun, used to put similar 
questions to Fanny, in the old lady's presence, till, 
at last, displeased and indignant at her bluntness 
and ill-breeding, she scarcely noticed or spoke to 
her. In the meanwhile, Cecilia Livingstone be- 
came an object of increasing interest to her ; for 
she had a lover to whom she was greatly attached ; 
but who would not be in a situation to marry for 
many years. 

This young man was frequently at the house, 
and was as polite and attentive to the old lady,when 
she was present, as the rest of the family ; but, 
like them, he was ever ready to indulge in a laugh 
at her credulous simplicity, and especially at her 
continually expressing her belief, as well as her 
hopes, that they were all beginning to think less of 
the present world, and more of the next ; and as 
Alfred Lawrie, (Cecilia's lover,) as well as the 
Livingstones, possessed no inconsiderable power of 
mimickry, they exercised them with great effect on 
the manner and tones of her whom they called the 
over-dressed saint, unrestrained, alas ! by the con- 
sciousness that she was their present, and would, 
as they expected, be their future, benefactress. 

That confiding and unsuspecting being was, 
meanwhile, considering that though her health was 
9* 



i02 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

'injured by a long residence in a warm climate, she 
might still live many years ; and that, as Cecilia 
might not therefore possess the fortune which she 
had bequeathed to her till " youth and genial years 
were flown," it would be better to give it to her 
during her lifetime. " I will do so," she said to 
herself (tears rushing into her eyes as she thought 
of the happiness which she was going to impart,) 
" and then the young people can marry directly !" 

She took this resolution one day when the Living- 
stones believed that she had left her home on a 
visit. Consequently, having no expectation of 
seeing her for some time, they had taken advantage 
of her long vainly-expected absence to make some 
engagements which they knew she would have ex- 
cessively disapproved. But though, as yet, they 
knew it not, the old lady had been forced to put off 
her visit ; a circumstance which she did not at all 
regret, as it enabled her to go sooner on her benev- 
olent errand. 

The engagement of the Livingstones for that day 
was a rehearsal of a private play at their house, 
which they were afterwards, and during their saint- 
ly friend's absence, to perform at the house of a 
friend ; and a large room, called the library, in 
which there was a wide, commodious skreen, was 
selected as the scene of action. 

Fanny Barnwell, who disliked private and other 
theatricals as much as their old friend herself, was 
to have no part in the performance ; but, as they 
were disappointed of their prompter that evening, 
she was, though with great difficulty, persuaded to 
perform the office, for that night only. 

It was to be a dress rehearsal ; and the parties 
were in the midst of adorning themselves, when to 
their great consternation, they saw their supposed 



THE 9KREEN. 103 

distant friend coming up the street, and evidently- 
intending them a visit. What was to be done ? 
To admit her was impossible. They therefore call- 
ed up a new servant, who only came to them the 
day before, and who did not know the worldly con- 
sequence of their unwelcome guest } and Cecilia 
said to her, " you see that old lady yonder ; when 
she knocks, be sure you say that we are not at home ; 
and you had better add, that we shall not be home 
till bed-time ;" thus adding the lie of convenience 
to other deceptions. Accordingly, when she knock- 
ed at the door, the girl spoke as she was desired to 
do, or rather she improved upon it ; for she said 
that " her ladies had been out all day, and would 
not return till two o'clock in the morning." — " In- 
deed ! that is unfortunate ;" said their disappoint- 
ed visiter, stopping to deliberate whether she should 
not leave a note of agreeable surprise for Cecilia ; 
but the girl, who held the door in her hand, seem- 
ed so impatient to get rid of her, that she resolved 
not to write, and then turned away. 

The girl was really in haste to return to the 
kitchen ; for she was gossiping with an old fellow- 
servant. She therefore neglected to go back to her 
anxious employers ; but Cecilia ran down the back 
stairs, to interrogate her, exclaiming, " Well ; what 
did she say ? I hope she did not suspect that we 
were at home." — " No, to be sure not, Miss ;— 
how should she ? — for I said even more than you; 
told me to say," repeating her additions ; being 
eager to prove her claim to the confidence of her 
new mistress. " But are you sure that she is real- 
ly gone from the door ?" — " To be sure, Miss."-— 
" Still, I wish you could go and see ; because we 
have not seen her pass the window, though we 
heard the door -shut."—- " Dear me, Miss, how 



104 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

should you ? for I looked out after her, and I saw 
her go down the street under the windows, and turn 
* . . . yes, — 4 am sure that I saw her turn into a 
shop. However, I will go and look, if you desire 
it." She did so ; and certainly saw nothing of the 
dreaded guest. Therefore, her young ladies finish- 
ed their preparations, devoid of fear. But the 
truth was, that the girl, little aware of the impor- 
tance of this unwelcomed lady,- and concluding she 
could not be a friend, but merely some troublesome 
nobody, showed her contempt and her anger at be- 
ing detained so long, by throwing to the street-door 
with such violence, that it did not really close ; and 
the old lady, who had ordered her carriage to come 
for her at a certain hour, and was determined, on 
second thoughts, to sit down and wait for it, was 
able, unheard, to push open the door, and to enter the 
library unperceived ; — for the girl lied to those who 
bade her lie, when she said she saw her walk away. 
In that room Mrs. Atherling found a sofa ; and 
though she wondered at seeing a large skreen open- 
ed before it, she seated herself on it, and, being fa- 
tigued with her walk, soon fell asleep. But her 
slumber was broken very unpleasantly ; for she 
heard, as she awoke, the following dialogue, on the 
entrance of Cecilia and her lover, accompanied by 
Fanny. " Well — 1 am so glad we got rid of Mrs. 
Atherling so easily !" cried Cecilia. " That new 
girl seems apt. Some servants deny one so as to 
show one is at home." — " I should like them the 
better for it," said Fanny. " I hate to see any one 
ready at telling a falsehood." — " Poor little con- 
scientious dear !" said the lover, mimicking her, 
" one would think the dressed-up saint had made 
you as methodistical as herrself." " What, I sup- 
pose, Miss Fanny, you would have had us let the 



THE SKREEN. 105 

old quiz "in."-—" To be sure I would ; and I won- 
der you could be denied to so kind a friend.-— 
Poor dear Mrs. Atherling ! how hurt she would be, 
if she knew you were at home !" — " Poor dear, 
indeed I Do not be so affected, Fanny. How 
should you care for Mrs. Atherling, when you 
know that she dislikes you !" — " Dislikes me ! 
Oh yes ; I fear she does !" — " I am sure she 
does," replied Cecilia ; " for you are downright 
rude to her. Did you not say, only the day be- 
fore yesterday, when she said, There, Miss Barn- 
well, I hope I have at last gotten a eap which you 
like, — No ; I am sorry to say you have not ?" — 
" To be sure I did ; — I could not tell a falsehood, 
even to please Mrs. Atherling, though she was my 
own dear mother's dearest friend." — " Your mo- 
ther's friend, Fanny ? I never heard that before ;" 
said the lover. " Did you not know that, Alfred !" 
said Cecilia ; eagerly adding, " but Mrs. Atherling 
does not know it ;" giving him a meaning look, as 
if to say, "and do not you tell her." — "Would 
she did know it !" said Fanny mournfully, " for, 
though I dare not tell her so, lest she should abuse 
my poor mother, as you say she would, Cecilia, be- 
cause she was so angry at her marriage with my 
misguided father, still, I think she would look kind- 
ly on her once dear friend's orphan child, and like 
me, in spite of my honesty." — " No, no, silly girl ; 
honesty is usually its own reward. Alfred, what 
do you think ? Our old friend, who is not very 
penetrating, said one day to her, I suppose you 
think my caps too young for me ; and that true 
young person replied, Yes, madam, I do." — " And 
would do so again, Cecilia ; — and it was far more- 
friendly and kind to say so than flatter her on her 
dress, as you do, and then laugh at it when her 



106 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

back is turned. I hate to hear any one mimicked 
and laughed at ; and more especially my mamma's 
old friend." — "There, there, child ! your sentimen- 
tality makes me sick. But come ; let us begin."-— 
" Yes," cried Alfred, " let us rehearse a little, 
before the rest of the party come. I should like to 
hear Mrs. Atherling's exclamations, if she knew 
what we were doing. She would say thus :".... 
Here he gave a most accurate representation of the 
poor old lady's voice and manner, and her fancied 
abuse of private theatricals, while Cecilia cried, 
u bravo ! bravo !" and Fanny, " shame ! shame I" 
till the other Livingstones, and the rest of the com* 
pany, who now entered, drowned her cry in their 
loud applauses and louder laughter. 

The old lady, whom surprise, anger, and wound- 
ed sensibility, had hitherto kept silent and still in 
her involuntary hiding-place, now rose up, and, 
mounting on the sofa, looked over the top of the 
skreen,full of reproachful meaning, on the conscious 
offenders ! 

What a moment, to them, of overwhelming sur- 
prise and consternation ! The cheeks, flushed with 
malicious triumph and satirical pleasure, became 
covered with the deeper blush of detected treachery, 
or pale with fear of its consequences ; — and the 
eyes, so lately beaming with ungenerous, injurious 
satisfaction, were now cast, with painful shame, up- 
on the ground, unable to meet the justly indignant 
glance of her, whose kindness they had repaid with 
such palpable and base ingratitude ! " An admi- 
rable likeness indeed, Alfred Lawrie," said their 
undeceived dupe, breaking her perturbed silence, 
and coming down from her elevation ; " but it will 
cost you more than you are at present aware of. — 
But who art thou t* she added, addressing Fanny 



¥HE SKKtEN. 107 

(who, though it might hare been & moment of tri- 
umph to her, felt and looked as if she had been a 
sharer in the guilt,) " Who art thou, my honourable, 
kind girl ? And who was your mother ?" — " Your 
Fanny Beaumont," replied the quick-feeling or- 
phan, bursting into tears. " Fanny Beaumont's 
child ! and it was concealed from me !" said she, 
folding the weeping girl to her heart. M But it was 
all of a piece ; — all treachery and insincerity, from 
the beginning to the end. However, I am unde- 
ceived before it was too late," She then disclosed 
to the detected family her generous motive for the 
unexpected visit ; and declared her thankfulness 
for what had taken place, as far as she was herself 
concerned ; though she could not but deplore, as a 
christian, the discovered turpitude of those whom 
she had fondly loved. 

" I have now," she continued, "to make amends 
to one whom I have hitherto not treated kindly ; 
but I have at length been enabled to discover an 

undeserved friend, amidst undeserved foes 

My dear child," added she, parting Fanny's dark 
ringlets, and gazing fearfully in her face, " I must 
have been blind, as well as blinded, not to see your 
likeness to your dear mother. — Will you live with 
me, Fanny, and be unto me as a daughter . ? " — 
" Oh, most gladly !" was the eager and agitated 
reply. " You artful creature !" exclaimed Cecilia, 
pale with rage and mortification, " You knew very 
well that she was behind the skreen." — " I know 
that she could not know it," replied the old lady ; 
" and you, Miss Livingstone, assert what you do 
not yourself believe. But come, Fanny, let us go 
and meet my carriage ; for, no do.ubt your presence 
here is now as unwelcome as mine." But Fanny 
lingered, as if reluctant to depart. She could not 



108 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

bear to leave the Livingstones in anger. They had 
been kind to her ; and she would fain have parted 
with them affectionately ; but they all preserved a 
sullen indignant silence, and scornfully repelled her 
advances. — " You see that you must not tarry here, 
my good girl, 3 ' observed the old lady, smiling ; 
" so let us depart." They did so ; leaving the 
Livingstones and the lover, not deploring their fault, 
but lamenting their detection ; — lamenting also the 
hour when they added the lies of convenience to 
their other deceptions, and had thereby enabled 
their unsuspecting dupe to detect those falsehoods, 
the result of their avaricious fears, which may be 
justly entitled the lies of interest. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

lies of first-rate malignity. 

Lies of first-rate malignity come next to be 
considered : and I think that I am right in assert- 
ing that such lies, — lies intended wilfully to destroy 
the reputation of men and women, to injure their 
characters in public or private estimation, and for 
ever cloud over their prospects in life, — are less 
frequent than falsehoods of any other description. 

Not that malignity is an unfrequent feeling ; — 
not that dislike, or envy, or jealousy, would not 
gladly vent itself in many a malignant falsehood, or 
other efforts of the same kind, against the peace 
and fame of its often innocent and unconscious ob- 
jects ; — but that the arm of the law, in some meas- 



LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 109 

•are at least, defends reputations : and if it should 
not have been able to deter the slanderer from his 
purpose, it can at least avenge the slandered. 

Still, such is the prevailing tendency, in society, 
to prey on the reputations of others (especially of 
those who are at all distinguished, either in public 
or private life ;) such the propensity to impute bad 
motives to good actions : so common the fiend- 
like pleasure of finding or imagining blemishes in 
beings on whom even a motive-judging world in 
general gazes with respectful admiration, and be- 
stows the sacred tribute of well-earned praise ; that 
I am convinced there are many persons, worn both 
in mind and body by the consciousness of being the 
objects of calumnies and suspicions which they 
have it not in their power to combat,who steal brok- 
en-hearted to their graves, thankful for the sum- 
mons of death, and hoping to find refuge from the 
injustice of their fellow-creatures in the bosom of 
their God and Saviour. 

With the following illustration of the lie of 
first-rate malignity I shall conclude my obser- 
vations on this subject. 



THE ORPHAN. 

There are persons in the world whom circum- 
stances have so entirely preserved from intercourse 
with the base and the malignant, and whose dispo- 
sitions are so free from bitterness, that they can 
scarcely believe in the existence of baseness and 
10 



110 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

malignity. Such persons, when they hear of in- 
juries committed, and wrongs done, at the instiga- 
tion of the most trivial and apparently worthless 
motives, are apt to exclaim, " You have been im- 
posed upon. No one could be so wicked as to act 
thus upon such slight grounds ; and you are not re- 
lating as a sober observer of human nature and hu- 
man action, but with the exaggerated view of a 
dealer in fiction and romance !" Happy, and 
privileged beyond the ordinary charter of human 
beings, are those who can thus exclaim ; — but the 
inhabitants of the tropics might, with equal justice, 
refuse to believe in the existence of that thing call- 
ed snow, as these unbelievers in the moral turpitude 
in question refuse their credence to anecdotes which 
disclose it. All they can with propriety assert is, 
that such instances have not come under their cog- 
nizance. Yet, even to these favoured few^ I would 
put the following questions : — Have you never ex- 
perienced feelings of selfishness, anger, jealousy, 
or envy, which, though habits of religious and moral 
restraint taught you easily to subdue them, had yet 
troubled you long enough to make you fully sensi- 
ble of their existence and their power ? If so, is it 
not easy to believe that such feelings, when excited 
in the minds of those not under religious and moral 
guidance, may grow to such an unrestrained excess 
as to lead to actions and lies of terrible malignity ? 

I cannot but think that even the purest and best 
of my friends must answer in the affirmative. Still, 
they have reason to return thanks to their Creator, 
that their lot has been cast amongst such " pleas- 
ant places ;" and that it is theirs to breathe an at- 
mosphere impregnated only with airs from heaven. 

My lot, from a peculiar train of circumstances, 
has been somewhat differently cast ; and when I 



THE ORPHAN. Ill 

give the following story, to illustsate a lie of first- 
rate malignity, I do so with the certain knowl- 
edge that its foundation is truth. 



Constantia Gordon was the only child of a 
professional man, of great eminence, in a provincial 
town. Her mother was taken from her before she, 
had attained the age of womanhood, but not before 
the wise and pious precepts which she gave her 
had taken deep root, and had therefore counteract- 
ed the otherwise pernicious effects of a showy and 
elaborate education. Constantia's talents were 
considerable ; and as her application was equal to 
them, she was, at an early age, distinguished in her 
native place for her learning and accomplishments. 

Among the most intimate associates of her fath- 
er, was a gentleman of the name of Overton ; a 
man of some talent, and some acquirement ; but, 
as his pretensions to eminence were not as univer- 
sally allowed as he thought that they ought to have 
been, he was extremely tenacious of his own con- 
sequence, excessively envious of the slightest suc- 
cesses of others, while any dissent from his dogmas 
was an offence which his mean soul was incapable 
of forgiving. 

It was only too natural that Constantia, as she 
was the petted, though not spoiled, child of a fond 
father, and the little sun of the circle in which she 
moved, was, perhaps, only too forward in giving 
her opinion on literature, and on some other sub- 
jects, which are not usually discussed by women 
at all, and still less by girls at her time of life ; and 
she had sometimes ventured to disagree in opinion 
with Oracle Overton — the nickname by which this 



112 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

man was known. But he commonly took refuge 
in sarcastic observations on the ignorance and pre- 
sumption of women in general, and of blue-stock- 
ing girls in particular, while on his face a grin of 
conscious superiority contended with the frown of 
pedantic indignation. 

Hitherto this collision of wits had taken place in 
Constantia's domestic circle only ; but, one day, 
Overton and the former met at the house of a noble- 
man in the neighbourhood, and in company with 
many persons of considerable talent. While they 
were at table, the master of the house said that it 
was his birth-day ; and some one immediately pro- 
posed that all the guests, who could write verses, 
should produce one couplet at least, in honour of 
the day. 

But as Overton and Constantia were the only 
persons present who were known to be so gifted, 
they alone were assailed with earnest entreaties to 
employ their talents on the occasion. The latter, 
however, was prevented by timidity from compli- 
ance ; and she persevered in her refusal, though 
Overton loudly conjured her to indulge the compa- 
ny with a display of her wonderful genius ; ac- 
companying his words with a sarcastic smile, which 
she well understood. Overton's muse, therefore, 
since Constantia would not let hers enter into the 
competition, walked over the course ; having been 
highly applauded for a mediocre stanza of eight dog- 
grel lines. But, as Constantia's timidity vanished 
when she found herself alone with the ladies in the 
drawing-room, who were most of them friends of 
hers, she at length produced some verses, which 
not only delighted her affectionate companions, but, 
when shown to the gentlemen, drew from them 
more and warmer encomiums than had been be* 



THE ORPHAN. 113 

stowed on the frothy tribute of her competitor ; 
while the writhing and mortified Overton forced 
himself to say they were very well, very well in- 
deed, for a scribbling miss of sixteen ; insinuating 
at the same time that the pretended extempore was 
one written by her father at home, and gotten by 
heart by herself. But the giver of the feast de- 
clared that he had forgotten it was his birth-day, 
till he sat down to table ; therefore, as every one 
said, although the verses were written by a girl of 
sixteen only, they would have done honour to a 
riper age, Overton gained nothing but added morti- 
fication from his mean attempt to blight Constantia's 
well-earned laurels, especially as his ungenerous 
conduct drew on him severe animadversions from 
some of the other guests. His fair rival also un- 
wittingly deepened his resentment against herself, 
by venturing, in a playful manner, being embolden- 
ed by success, to dispute some of his paradoxes ; — 
and once she did it so successfully, that she got the 
laugh against Overton, in a manner so offensive to 
his self-love, that he suddenly left the company, 
vowing revenge, in his heart, against the being who 
had thus shone at his expense. However, he con- 
tinued to visit at her father's house ; and was still 
considered as their most intimate friend. 

Constantia, meanwhile, increased not only both 
in beauty and accomplishments, but in qualities of 
a more precious nature ; namely, in a knowledge 
of her christian duties. But her charities were per- 
formed in secret, and so fearful was she of being 
deemed righteous overmuch, and considered as an 
enthusiast, even by her father himself, that the 
soundness of her religious character was known 
only to the sceptical Overton, and two or three 
10* 



114 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

more of her associates, while it was a notorious 
fact, that the usual companions of her father and 
herself were freethinkers and latitudinarians, both 
in politicks and religion. But, if Constantia did 
not lay open her religious faith to those by whom 
she was surrounded, she fed its lamp in her own 
bosom, with never-ceasing watchfulness ; and, like 
the solitary light in a cottage on the dark and lone- 
ly moors, it beamed on her hours of solitude and 
retirement, cheering and warming her amidst sur- 
rounding darkness. 

It was to do yet more for her. It was to sup- 
port her, not only under the sudden death of a fa- 
ther whom she tenderly loved, but under the unex- 
pected loss of income which his death occasioned. 
On examining his affairs, it was discovered that, 
when his debts were all paid, there would be a bare 
maintenance only remaining for his afflicted orphan. 
Constantia's sorrow, though deep, was quiet and 
gentle as her nature ; and she felt, with unspeak- 
able thankfulness, that she owed the tranquillity 
and resignation of her mind to her religious convic- 
tions alone. 

The interesting orphan had only just returned 
into the society of her friends, when a Sir Edward 
Vandeleur, a young baronet of large fortune, came 
on a visit in the neighbourhood. 

Sir Edward was the darling and pride of a high- 
ly-gifted mother, and several amiable sisters ; and 
Lady Vandeleur, who was in declining health, had 
often urged her son to let her have the satisfaction 
of seeing him married before she was taken away 
from him. 

But, it was no easy thing for a man like Sir Ed- 
ward Vandeleur to find a wife suited to him. His 
feelings were too much under a strong religious re- 



THE ORPHAN. 115 

straint, to admit of his falling violently in love, a< 
the phrase is ; and beauty and accomplishments 
had no chance of captivating his heart, unless they 
were accompanied by qualities which fully satisfied 
his principles and his judgment. 

It was at this period of his life that Sir Edward 
Vandeleur was introduced to Constantia Gordon, at 
a small conversation party, at the house of a mutual 
acquaintance. 

Her beauty, her graceful manners, over which 
sorrow had cast a new and sobered charm, and her 
great conversational powers, made her presently an 
object of interest to Sir Edward ; and when he 
heard her story, that interest was considerably in- 
creased by pity for her orphan state and altered cir- 
cumstances. 

Therefore, though Sir Edward saw Constantia 
rarely, and never, except at one house, he felt her 
at every interview growing more on his esteem and 
admiration ; and he often thought of the recluse in 
her mourning simple attire, and wished himself by 
her side, when he was the courted, flattered, atten- 
dant on a reigning belle. 

Not that he was in love ; — that is, not that he 
had imbibed an attachment which his reason could 
not at once enable him to conquer, if it should ever 
disapprove its continuance ; — but his judgment, as 
well as his taste, told him that Constantia was the 
sort of woman to pass life with. " Seek for a com- 
panion in a wife !" had always been his mother's 
advice. " Seek for a woman who has understand- 
ing enough to know her duties, and piety and prin- 
ciple enough to enable her to fulfil them ; one who 
can teach her children to follow in her steps, and 
form them for virtue here, and happiness hereaf- 
ter 1" " Surely," thought Sir Edward, as he re- 



116 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

called this natural advice, " I have found the wo- 
man so described in Constantia Gordon !" But 
he was still too prudent to pay her any marked at- 
tention ; especially as Lady Vandeleur had recom- 
mended caution. 

At this moment his mother wrote thus : — 

" I do not see any apparent objection to the lady 
in question. — Still, be cautious ! Is there no one 

at who has known her from her childhood, and 

can give you an account of her and her moral and re- 
ligious principles, which can be relied upon ? 
Death, that great discoverer of secrets, proved that 
her father was not a very worthy man, still, bad 
parents have good children, and vice versa ; but, 
inquire and be wary." 

The day after Sir Edward received this letter, 
he was introduced to Overton at the house of a 
gentleman in the neighbourhood ; and at the most 
unfortunate period possible for Constantia Gordon. 
Overton had always pretended to have a sincere 
regard for the poor orphan, and no one was more 
loud in regrets for her reduced fortune ; but, as he 
was fond of giving her pain, h£ used to mingle with 
his pity, so many severe remarks on her father's 
thoughtless conduct, that had he not been her fath- 
er's most familiar friend, she would have forbidden 
him her presence. 

One day, having found her alone at her lodgings, 
he accompanied his expressions of affected condo- 
lence with a proposal to give her a bank-note now 
and then, to buy her a new gown ; as he was (he 
said) afraid that she would not have money suf- 
ficient to set off her charms to advantage. To real 
kindness, however vulgarly worded, Constantia's 
heart was ever open ; but she immediately saw that 
this offer, prefaced as it was by abuse of her father. 



THE ORPHAN. 117 

was merely the result of malignity and coarseness 
combined ; and her spirit, though habitually gentle, 
was roused to indignant resentment. 

But who, that has ever experienced the bitter- 
ness of feeling excited by the cold, spiteful efforts 
of a malignant temper to irritate a gentle and gene- 
rous nature, can withhold their sympathy and par- 
don from Constantia on this occasion ? At last, 
gratified at having made his victim a while forego 
her nature, and at being now enabled to represent 
her as a vixen ; he took his leave with hypocritical 
kindness, calling her his " naughty scolding Con," 
leaving her to humble herself before that Being 
whom she feared to have offended by her violence, 
and to weep over the recollection of an interview 
which had added, to her other miseries, that of self- 
reproach. 

Overton, meanwhile, did not retire unhurt from 
the combat. The orphan had uttered, in her ago- 
ny, some truths which he could not forget. She 
had held up to him a mirror of himself, from which 
he found it difficult to turn away, while in propor- 
tion to his sense of suffering was his resentment 
against its fair cause ; and his desire of revenge 
was in proportion to both. 

It was on this very day that he dined in company 
with Sir Edward Vandeleur, who was soon inform- 
ed, by the master of the house, that Overton had 
been, from her childhood, the friend and intimate 
of Constantia Gordon ; and the same gentleman 
informed Overton, in private, that Sir Edward was 
supposed to entertain thoughts of paying his ad- 
dresses to Constantia. 

Inexpressible was Overton's consternation at 
hearing that this girl, whose poverty he had insulted, 
whom he disliked because she had been a thorn to 



118 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

his self-love, and under whose just severity he was 
still smarting, was likely, not only to be removed 
from his power to torment her, but to be raised 
above him by a fortunate marriage. 

Great w 7 as his triumph, therefore, when Sir Ed- 
ward, before they parted, requested an interview 
with him the following morning, at his lodgings in 

the town of , adding, that he wished to ask 

him some questions concerning their mutual friend, 
Constantia Gordon. 

Accordingly they met ; and the following con- 
versation took place. Sir Edward began by can- 
didly confessing the high opinion which he had con- 
ceived of Constantia, and his earnest wish to have 
its justice confirmed by the testimony of her oldest 
and most intimate friend. " Sir Edward," replied 
the exulting hypocrite, with well-acted reluctance, 
" you put an honourable and a kind-hearted man, 
like myself, into a complete embarras." — " Sir, 
what do I hear f" cried Sir Edward, starting from 
his seat, " Can you feel any embarrassment, w 7 hen 
called upon to bear testimony in favour of Constan- 
tia Gordon ?" — " I dare say you cannot think such 
a thing possible," he replied with a sneer ; " for 
men in love are usually blind." — " But I am not 
in love yet," eagerly replied Sir Edward ; " and 
it very much depends on this conversation w r hether 
I ever am so with the lady in question." — " Well 
then, Sir Edward, however unpalatable, I must 
speak the truth. I need not tell you that Constan- 
tia is beautiful, accomplished, and talented, is, I 
think, the new word." — " No, Sir ; I already know 
she is all these ; and she appears to me as gentle, 
virtuous, and pious, as she is beautiful." — " I dare 
say she does ; but, as to her gentleness, however, I 
might provoke her improperly ; — but, I assure you, 



THE ORPHAN. 119 

she flew into such a passion with me yesterday, 
that I thought she would have struck me !" — " Is 
it possible ? I really feel a difficulty in believing 
you !" — " No doubt ; — so let us talk of something 
else." — " No, no, — Mr. Overton ; I came hither 
to be informed on a subject deeply interesting to 
me, and, at whatever risk of disappointment, I will 
await all you have to say.*' — " I have nothing to 
say, Sir Edward, you know Con is beautiful and 
charming ; and is not that enough ?" — " No ! it is 
not enough. Outward graces are not sufficient to 
captivate and fix me, unless they are accompanied 
by charms that fade not with time, but blossom to 
eternity." — " Whew !" exclaimed Overton, with 
well-acted surprise, " I see that you are a metho- 
dist, Sir Edward ; and if so, my friend Con will 
not suit you." " Does it follow that I am a metho- 
dist, because I require that my wife should be a 
woman of pious and moral habits ?" — " Oh ! for 
morals, these, indeed, my friend Con would suit 
you well enough. Let her morals pass ;■— but as 
to her piety, religion will never turn her head." — 
" What do you mean, Mr. Overton ?" — " Why, 
sir, our lovely friend has learned, from the company 
which she has kept, to think freely on such sub- 
jects ; — very freely ; — for women, you know, al- 
ways go to extremes. Men keep within the ration- 
al bounds of deism ; but the female sceptic, weak- 
er in intellect, and incapable of reasoning, never 
rests, till she loses herself in the mazes and ab- 
surdities of atheism." Had Sir Edward Vandeleur 
seen the fair smooth skin of Constantia suddenly cov- 
ered with leprosy, he would not have been more 
shocked than he was at being informed of this utter 
blight to her mental beauty in his rightly-judging 
eyes ; — and, starting from his seat, he exclaimed., 



120 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" do you really mean to assert that your fair friend 
is an atheist r" — " Sir Edward, I am Constantia's 
friend ; and I was her father's friend ; and I am 
sorry these things have been forced from me ; — but 
I could not deceive an honourable man, who placed 
confidence also in my honour ; though, as Constan- 
tia is the child of an old friend, and poor, it w T ould 
be, perhaps, a saving to my pocket, if she were 
well married." — " Then, it is true !" said Sir Ed- 
ward, clasping his hands in agony ; a and this love- 
ly girl is what I hate to name ! Yet, she looks so 
right-minded ! and I have thought the expression 
of her dark blue eye was that of pious resigna- 
tion !" — " Yes, yes ; I know that look ; and she 
knows that is her prettiest look. That eye, half 
turned up, shows her fine long dark eyelashes to 
great advantage I" — " Alas !" replied Sir Edward, 
deeply sighing, " if this be so — oh ! what are 
looks ? Good morning. You have distressed, but 
you have saved me." — When Overton, soon after, 
saw Sir Edward drive past in his splendid curricle, 
he exulted that he had prevented Constantia from 
ever sitting there by his side. 

Yet he was, as I have said before, one of the few 
who knew how deeply and sincerely Constantia 
was a believer ; for he had himself, in vain, at- 
tempted to shake her belief, and thence, he had 
probably a double pleasure in representing her as 
he did. 

Sir Edward was engaged that evening to meet 
Constantia at the accustomed house ; and, as his 
attentions to her had been rather marked, and her 
friends, with the usual dangerous ofiiciousness on 
such occasions, had endeavoured to convince her 
that she had made a conquest, as the phrase is, of 
the young baronet, the expectation of meeting him 



THE ORPHAN. 121 

was become a circumstance of no small interest to 
her ; though she was far too humble to be convinc- 
ed that they were right in their conjectures. 

But the mind of Constantia was too much un- 
der the guidance of religious principle, to allow her 
to love any man, however amiable, unless she was 
sure of being beloved by him. She was too deli- 
cate, and had too much self-respect, to be capable 
of such a weakness ; she therefore escaped that 
danger, of which I have seen the peace of some 
young women become the victim ; namely, that of 
being talked and flattered into a hopeless passion 
by the idle wishes and representations of gossiping 
acquaintances. And well was it for her peace that 
she had been thus holily on her guard ; for, when 
Sir Edward Vandeleur, instead of keeping his en- 
gagement, sent a note to inform her friend that he 
was not able to wait on her, as he thought of going 
to London the next day, Constantia felt that the 
idea of his attachment was as unfounded as it had 
been pleasing, and she rejoiced that the illusion 
had not been long enough to endanger her tranquil- 
lity. Still, she could not but own, in the secret of 
her heart, that the prospect of passing life with a 
being apparently so suited to herself, was one on 
which her thoughts had dwelt with involuntary 
pleasure ; and a tear started to her eyes, at the 
idea that she might see him no more. But, she 
considered it as the tear of weakness, and though 
her sleep that night was short, it was tranquil, and 
she rose the next morning to resume the duties of 
the day with her accustomed alacrity. In her 
walks she met Sir Edward, but, happily for her, as 
he was leaning on Overton's arm, whom she had 
not seen since she had parted with him in anger, a 
11 



122 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

turn was given to her feelings, by the approach of 
the latter, which enabled her to conquer at once 
her emotion at the unexpected sight of the former. 
Still, the sight of Overton occasioned in her disa- 
greeable and painful recollections, which gave an 
unpleasing and equivocal expression to her beauti- 
ful features, and enabled Overton to observe, " You 
see, Sir Edward, how her conscience flies in her 
face at seeing me ! How are you ? How are 
you ?" said Overton, catching her hand as she 
passed. — " Have you forgiven me yet ? Oh ! you 
vixen, how you scolded me the other day !" Con- 
stantia, too much mortified and agitated to speak, 
and repel the charge, replied by a look of indigna- 
tion ; and, snatching her hand away, she bowed to 
Sir Edward, and hastened out of sight. " You 
see," cried Overton, " that she resents still ! and 
how like a fury she looked ! You must be con- 
vinced that I told you the truth. Now, could you 
believe, Sir Edward, that pretty Con could have 
looked in that manner ?" — " Certainly not ; and 
appearances are indeed deceitful." Still, Sir Ed- 
ward wished Constantia had given him an oppor- 
tunity of bidding her farewell ; however, he left his 
good wishes and respects for her with their mutual 
friend, and set off that evening to join his mother at 
Hastings. " But are you sure, Edward," said 
Lady Vandeleur, when he had related to her all that 
had passed, " that this Overton is a man to be de- 
pended upon ?" — " Oh, yes ! and he could have 
no motive for calumniating her, but the contrary, as 
it would have been a relief to his mind and pocket 
to get his old friend's daughter well married,"—- 
" But, does she appear to her other friends neg- 
lectful of her religious duties, as if she had really 
no religion at all ?" — ■" So far from it, that she has 



THE ORPHAN. 123 

always been punctual in the outward performance 
of them ; therefore, no one but Overton, the con- 
fidential friend and intimate of the family, could 
suspect or know her real opinions ; thus she adds, 
I fear, hypocrisy to scepticism. Overton also ac- 
cuses her of being violent in her temper ; and I was 
unexpectedly enabled to see the truth of this accu- 
sation, in a measure, confirmed. Therefore, in- 
deed, dear mother, all I have to do is to forget her, 
and resume my intention of accompanying you and 
my sisters to the continent." Accordingly they set 
off very soon on a foreign tour. 

Constantia, after she left Overton and Sir Ed- 
ward so hastily and suddenly, returned home in no 
enviable state of mind ; because she felt sure that 
her manner had been such as to convince the latter 
that she was the violent creature which Overton had 
represented her to be ; — and though she had calm- 
ly resigned all idea of being beloved by Sir Edward 
Vandeleur, she was not entirely indifferent to his 
good opinion. Besides, she feared that her quit- 
ting him, without one word of kind farewell, might 
appear to him a proof of pique and disappointment ; 
nor could she be quite sure that somewhat of that 
feeling did not impel her to hasten abruptly away ; 
and it was some time before she could conquer her 
self-blame and her regret. But, at length, she re- 
flected that there was a want of proper self-govern- 
ment in dwelling at all on recollections of Sir 
Edward Vandeleur ; and she forced herself into so- 
ciety and absorbing occupation. 

Hitherto Constantia had been contented to re- 
main in idleness ; but, as her income was, she 
found, barely equal to her maintenance, and she 
was therefore obliged to relinquish nearly all her 
charities, she resolved to turn her talents to ac- 



124 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

count ; and was just about to decide between two 
plans, which she had thought desirable, when an 
uncle in India died, and the question was decided 
in a very welcome and unexpected manner. Till 
this gentleman married, her father had such large 
expectations from him, that he had fancied them a 
sufficient excuse for his profuse expenditure ; but, 
when his brother, by having children, destroyed his 
hopes of wealth from that quarter, he had not 
strength of mind enough to break the expensive 
habits which he had acquired. To the deserving 
child, however, was destined the wealth withheld 
from the undeserving parent. Constantia's uncle's 
wife and children died before he did, and she be- 
came sole heiress to his large fortune. This event 
communicated a sensation of gladness to the whole 
town in which the amiable orphan resided. 

Constantia had borne her faculties so meekly, 
had been so actively benevolent, and was thence so 
generally beloved, that she was now daily overpow- 
ered with thankful and pleasing emotion, at behold- 
ing countenances which, at sight of her, were lighted 
up with affectionate sympathy and joy. 

Overton was one of the first persons whom she 
desired to see, on this accession of fortune. Her 
truly christian spirit had long made her wish to 
hold out to him her hand, in token of forgiveness ; 
but she wished to do so more especially now, be- 
cause he could not suspect her of being influenced 
by any mercenary views. Overton, however, 
meant to call on her, whether she invited him or 
not ; as, such was his love and respect for wealth, 
that, though the poor Constantia was full of faults 
in his eye, the rich Constantia was very likely to 
appear to him, in time, impeccable. He was at 
this period Mayor of the place in which he lived ; 



THE ORPHAN. 125 

and, having been knighted for carrying up an ad- 
dress, he became desirous of using the privilege, 
which, according to Shakespeare's Falconbridge, 
knighthood gives a man, of making " any Joan a 
lady." Nor was it long before he entertained seri- 
ous thoughts of marrying ; and why not ? as he 
was only fifty ; was very young-looking for his 
age ; was excessively handsome still ; and had 
now a title, in addition to a good fortune. The 
only difficulty was to make a choice ; for he was 
very sure that he must be the choice of any one to 
whom he offered himself. 

But where could he find in one woman all the 
qualities which he required in a wife ! She must 
have youth, and beauty, or he could not love 
her ; good principles, or he could not trust her ; 
and, though he was not religious himself, he had a 
certain consciousness that the best safeguard for a 
woman's principles was to be found in piety ; there- 
fore, he resolved that his wife should be a religious 
woman, Temper, patience, and forbearance, were 
also requisites in the woman he married ; and, as 
the last and best recommendation, she must have a 
large fortune. Reasonable man ! youth, beauty, 
temper, virtue, piety, and riches ! but what woman 
of his acquaintance possessed all these ? No one, 
he believed, but that forgiving being whom he had 
represented as an atheist ; — " that vixen, Con !" 
and while this conviction came over his mind, a 
blush of shame passed over even his brassy brow. — 
However, it was soon succeeded by one of pleas- 
ure, when he thought that, as Constantia was evi- 
dently uneasy till she had made it up with him, as 
the phrase is, it was not unlikely that she had a se- 
cret liking to him ; and as to her scribbling verses, 
and pretending to be literary, he would take care 
11* 



126 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

that she should not write when she was his wife } 
and he really thought he had better propose to her 
at once, especially as it was a duty in him to make 
her a lady himself, since he had prevented another 
man's doing so. There was perhaps another in- 
ducement to marry Constantia. It would give him 
an opportunity of tormenting her now and then, and 
making her smart for former impertinences. Per- 
haps, this motive was nearly as strong as the rest. 
Be that as it may, Overton had, at length, the pre- 
sumption to make proposals of marriage to the 
young and lovely heiress, who, though ignorant of 
his base conduct to her, and the lie of first-rate 
malignity with which he had injured her fame, 
and blighted her prospects, had still a dislike to his 
manners and character, which it was impossible for 
any thing to overcome. He was therefore refused* 
— and in a manner so decided, and, spite of herself, 
so haughty, that Overton's heart renewed all its ma- 
lignity towards her ; and his manner became so 
rude and offensive, that she was constrained to re- 
fuse him admittance, and go on a visit to a friend 
at some distance, intending not to return till the 
.house which she had purchased in a village near to 

was ready for her. But she had not been 

absent many months when she received a letter one 
evening, to inform her that her dearest friend at 

was supposed to be in the greatest danger, 

and she was requested to set off directly. To dis- 
obey this summons was impossible ; and, as the 
mail passed the house where she was, and she was 
certain of getting on faster that way than any other, 
she resolved, accompanied by her servant, to go 
by the mail, if possible ; and, happily, there were 
two places vacant. It was night when Constantia 
and her maid entered the coach, in which two gen- 
tlemen were already seated : and. to the conster- 



THE ORPHAN. I2f 

nation of Constantia, she soon saw, as they passed 
near a lamp, that her vis-a-vis was Overton ! He 
recognised her at the same moment ; and instantly 
began, in the French language, to express his joy 
at meeting her and to profess the faithfulness of his 
fervent affection. In vain did she try to force con- 
versation with the other passenger, who seemed 
willing to talk, and who, though evidently not a 
gentleman, was much preferable, in her opinion, to 
the new Sir Richard. He would not allow her to 
attend to any conversation but his own ; and, as it 
was with difficulty that she could keep her hand 
from his rude grasp, she tried to change seats with 
her maid ; but Overton forcibly withheld her ; and 
she thought it was better to endure the evil patient- 
ly, than violently resist it. When the mail stopped, 
that the passengers might sup, Constantia hoped 
Overton would, at least, leave her for a time ; but, 
though the other passenger got out, he kept his 
seat, and was so persevering, and was so much 
more disagreeable when the restraint imposed on 
him by the presence of others was removed, that 
she was glad when the coach was again full, and 
the mail drove off. 

Overton, however, became so increasingly offen- 
sive to her, that, at length, she assured him, in 
language the most solemn and decided, that no- 
thing should ever induce her to be his wife ; and 
that, were she pennyless, service would be more de- 
sirable to her than union with him. 

This roused his anger even to frenzy ; and, still 
speaking French, a language which he was sure the 
illiterate man in the corner could not understand, 
he told her that she refused him only because she 
loved Sir Edward Vandeleur ; " but," said he, 
" you have no chance of obtaining him. I have 



128 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

taken care to prevent that. I gave him such a 
character of you as frightened him away from you, 

and " " Base-minded man !" cried Con- 

stantia ; " what did you, what could you say 
against my character . p " — " Oh ! I said nothing 
against your morals. I only told him you were an 
atheist, and a vixen, that is all : — and, you know, 
you are the latter, though not the former ; but are 
more like a methodist than an atheist !" — " And 
you told him these horrible falsehoods ! And if 

you had not, would he have did he then ? 

but I know not what I say ; and I am 

miserable ! Cruel, wicked man ! how could you 
thus dare to injure and misrepresent an unprotect- 
ed orphan ! and the child of your friend ! and to 
calumniate me to him too ! to Sir Edward Vande- 
leur ! Oh ! it was cruel indeed !" — " What ! 
then you wished to please him, did you ? answer 
me !" he vociferated, seizing both her hands in 
his ; " Are you attached to Sir Edward Vande- 
leur ?" But, before Constantia could answer no, 
and, while faintly screaming with apprehension and 
pain, she vainly tried to free herself from Overton's 
nervous grasp, a powerful hand rescued her from 
the ruffian gripe. Then, while the dawn shone 
brightly upon her face, Constantia and Overton at 
the same moment recognised, in her rescuer, Sir 
Edward Vandeleur himself ! 

He was just returned from France ; and was on 

his way to the neighbourhood of ; being now, 

as he believed, able to see Constantia with entire in- 
difference, when, as one of his horses became ill, 
he resolved to take that place in the mail which the 
other passenger had quitted for the box ; and had 
thus the pleasure of hearing all suspicions, all irnpu- 
the character of Constantia cleared 



LIES 0F\ SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 129 

off, and removed, at once, and for ever ! Con- 
stantia's joy was little inferior to his own ; but it 
was soon lost in terror at the probable result of the 
angry emotions of Sir Edward and Overton. Her 
fear, however, vanished, when the former assured 
the latter, that the man who could injure an inno- 
cent woman, by a lie of first-rate malignity, 
was beneath even the resentment of an honourable 
man. 

I shall only add, that Overton left the mail at the 
next stage, baffled, disgraced, and miserable ; that 
Constantia found her friend recovering ; and that 
the next time she travelled along that road, it was 
as the bride of Sir Edward Vandeleur. 



CHAPTER IX. 

LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 

I have observed, in the foregoing chapter, that 
lies of first-rate malignity are not frequent, 
because the arm of the law defends reputations ; — 
but, against lies of second-rate malignity, the law 
holds out no protection ; nor is there a tribunal of 
sufficient power either to deter any one from utter- 
ing them, or to punish the utterer. The lies in 
question spring from the spirit of detraction ; a spir- 
it more widely diffused in society than any other ; 
and it gives birth to satire, ridicule, mimickry, 
quizzing, and lies of second-rate malignity, as cer- 
tainly as a wet season brings snails. 

I shall now explain what I consider as lies of 



130 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

second-rate malignity ;— namely, tempting per** 
sons, by dint of flattery, to do what they are incapa- 
ble of doing well, from the mean, malicious wish of 
leading them to expose themselves, in order that 
their tempter may enjoy a hearty laugh at their ex- 
pense. Persuading a man to drink more than his 
head can bear, by assurances that the wine is not 
strong, and that he has not drunk as much as he 
thinks he has, in order to make him intoxicated, 
and that his persuaders may enjoy the cruel delight 
of witnessing his drunken silliness, his vain-glorious 
boastings, and those physical contortions, or mental 
weaknesses, which intoxication is always sure to 
produce. Complimenting either man or woman 
on qualities which they do not possess, in hopes of 
imposing on their credulity ; praising a lady's work, 
or dress, to her face ; and then, as soon as she is 
no longer present, not only abusing both her work 
and her dress, but laughing at her weakness, in be- 
lieving the praise sincere. Lavishing encomiums 
on a man's abilities and learning in his presence ; 
and then, as soon as he is out of hearing, express- 
ing contempt for his credulous belief in the sinceri- 
ty of the praises bestowed ; and wonder that he 
should be so blind and conceited as not to know 
that he was in learning only a smatterer, and in un- 
derstanding just not a fool. All these are lies of 
second-rate malignity, which cannot be exceeded in 
base and petty treachery. 

The following story will, I trust, explain fully 
what, in the common intercourse of society, 1 con- 
sider as lies of second-rate malignity. 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 131 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN 

AND 

THE YOUNG ONE. 

Nothing shows the force of habit more than the 
lenaciousness with which those adhere to economical 
usages who, by their own industry and unexpected 
good fortune, are become rich in the decline of life. 

A gentleman, whom 1 shall call Dr. Albany, had, 
early in life, taken his degree at Cambridge, as a 
doctor of physick, and had settled in London as a 
physician ; but had worn away the best part of his 
existence in vain expectation of practice, when an 
old bachelor, a college friend, whom he had greatly 
served, died, and left him the whole of his large 
fortune. 

Dr. Albany had indeed deserved this bequest ; 
for he had rendered his friend the greatest of all 
services. He had rescued him, by his friendly ad- 
vice, and enlightened arguments, from scepticism, 
apparently the most hopeless ; and, both by pre- 
cept and example, had allured him along the way 
that leads to salvation. 

But, as wealth came to Dr. Albany too late in 
life for him to think of marrying, and as he had no 
relations who needed all his fortune, he resolved to 
leave the greatest part of it to those friends who 
wanted it the most. 

Hitherto, he had scarcely ever left London ; as 
he had thought it right to wait at home to receive 
business, even though business never came ; but. 
now he was resolved to renew the neglected ac- 
quaintances of his youth 5 and, knowing that some 



132 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

of his early friends lived near Cheltenham, Leam- 
ington, and Malvern, he resolved to visit those wa- 
tering-places, in hopes of meeting there some of 
these well-remembered faces. 

Most men, under his circumstances, would have 
ordered a handsome carriage, and entered Chelten- 
ham in style ; but, as I before observed, habits of 
economy adhere so closely to persons thus situated, 
that Dr. Albany could not prevail on himself to travel 
in a manner more in apparent accordance with the 
acquisition of such a fortune. He therefore went 
by a cheap day-coach ; nor did he take a servant 
with him. But, though still denying indulgences to 
himself, the first wish of his heart was to be gener- 
ous to others ; and, surely, that economy which is 
unaccompanied by avarice may, even in the midst 
of wealth, be denominated a virtue. 

While dinner was serving up, when they stopped 
on the road, Albany walked up a hill near the inn, 
and was joined there by a passenger from another 
coach. During their walk he observed a very 
pretty house on a rising ground in the distance, and 
asked his companion, who lived there. The latter 
replied that it was the residence of a clergyman, of 
the name of Musgrave. " Musgrave !" he eagerly 
replied, " what Musgrave ? Is his name Augus- 
tus ?"— ? Yes ;"— " Is he married .'"— " Yes ;"— 
" Has he a family f" " Oh yes ; a large one ; 
six daughters, and one son ; and he has found it a 
hard task to bring them up, as he wished to make 
them accomplished. The son is now going to col- 
lege." — " Are they an amiable family ?" — " Very ; 
the girls sing and play well, and draw well." — 
" And what is the son to be ?" — " A clergyman." 
— " Has he any chance of a living ?" — " Not that 
I know of ; but he must be something ; and a leg- 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. f33 

acy which the father has just had, of a few hundred 
pounds, will enable him to pay college expenses, 
till his son gets ordained, and can take curacies."— 
" Is Musgrave," said Albany after a pause, " a 
likely man to give a cordial welcome to an old 
friend, whom he has not seen for many years . ? " — 
" Oh yes ; he is very hospitable ; and there he is, 
now going into his own gate." — " Then I will not 
go on," said Albany, hastening to the stables. 
H There, coachman," cried he, " take your mo- 
ney ; and give me my little portmanteau." 

Augustus Musgrave had been a favourite college 
friend of Dr. Albany's, and he had many associa- 
tions with his name and image, which were dear to 
his heart. 

The objects of them were gone for ever ; but, 
thus recalled, they came over his mind like strains 
of long-forgotten musick, which he had loved and 
carolled in youth ; throwing so strong a feeling of 
tenderness over the recollection of Musgrave, that 
he felt an irresistible desire to see him again, and 
greet his wife and children in the language of glow- 
ing good- will. 

But, when he was introduced into his friend's 
presence, he had the mortification of finding that he 
was not recognized ; and was obliged to tell his 
name. 

The name, however, seemed to electrify Mus- 
grave with affectionate gladness. He shook his old 
friend heartily by the hand, presented him to his 
wife and daughters, and for some minutes moved 
and spoke with the brightness and alacrity of early 
youth. 

But the animation was momentary. The cares 
of a family, and the difficulty of keeping up the ap- 
12 



134 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

pearance of a gentleman with an income not suffi- 
cient for his means, had preyed on Musgrave's 
spirits ; especially as he knew himself to be involv- 
ed in debt. He had also other cares. The weak- 
ness of his nature, which he dignified by the name 
of tenderness of heart, had made him allow his 
wife and children to tyrannize over him ; and his 
son, who was an universal quizzer, did not permit 
even his father to escape from his impertinent ridi- 
cule. But then Musgrave was assured, by his own 
family, that his son Marmaduke was a wit ; and 
that, when he was once in orders, his talents would 
introduce him into the first circles, and lead to ul- 
timate promotion in his profession. » 

I have before said that Dr. Albany did not travel 
like a gentleman ; nor were his every-day clothes 
at all indicative of a well-filled purse. Therefore, 
though he was a physician, and a man of pleasing- 
manners, Musgrave's fine lady wife, and her tonnish 
daughters, could have readily excused him, if he 
had not persuaded their unexpected guest to stay a 
week with them ; and, with a frowning brow, they 
saw the portmanteau, which the strange person had 
brought himself, carried into the best chamber. 

But oh ! the astonishment and the comical gri- 
maces with which Marmaduke Musgrave, on his 
coming in from fishing, beheld the new guest ! 
Welcome smiled on one side of his face, but scorn 
sneered on the other ; and when Albany retired to 
dress, he declared that the only thing which consol- 
ed him for finding such a person forced on them, 
was the consciousness that he could extract great 
fun out of the old quiz, and serve him up for the 
entertainment of himself and friends. 

To this amiable exhibition the mother and daugh- 
ters looked forward with great satisfaction ; while 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 135 

his father, having vainly talked of the dues of hos- 
pitality, gave in, knowing that it was in vain to con- 
tend ; comforting himself with the hope that, while 
Marmaduke was quizzing his guest, he must neces- 
sarily leave him alone. 

In the meanwhile, how different were the cogi- 
tations and the plans of the benevolent Albany ! 
He had a long tete-a-tete walk with Musgrave, 
which had convinced him that his old friend was 
not happy, owing, he suspected, to his narrow in- 
come and expensive family. 

Then his son was going to college ; a dangerous 
and ruinous place : and, while the good old man 
was dressing for dinner, he had laid plans of action 
which made him feel more deeply thankful than 
ever for the weakh so unexpectedly bestowed on 
him. Of this wealth he had, as yet, said nothing 
to Musgrave. He was not purse-proud ; and when 
he heard his friend complain of his poverty, he 
shrunk from saying how rich he himself was. He 
had therefore simply said that he was enabled to re- 
tire from business ; and when Musgrave saw his 
friend's independent, economical habits, as evinced 
by his mode of travelling, he concluded that he had 
only gained a small independence, sufficient for his 
slender wants. 

To those, to whom amusement is every thing, 
and who can enjoy fun even when it is procured 
by the sacrifice of every benevolent feeling, that 
evening at the rectory, when the family party was 
increased by the arrival of some of the neighbours, 
would have been an exquisite treat ; for Marma- 
duke played off the unsuspicious old man to admi- 
ration ; mimicked him even to his face, unperceiv- 
ed by him ; and having found out that Albany had 
not only a passion for musick, but unfortunately 



136 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

fancied that he could sing himself, he urged his 
guest, by his flatteries, lies of second-rate malig- 
nity, to sing song after song, in order to make him 
expose himself for the entertainment of the com- 
pany, and give him an opportunity of perfecting his 
piirnickry. 

Blind, infatuated, contemptible boy ! short-sight- 
ed trifler on the path of the world ! Marmaduke 
Musgrave saw not that the very persons who seem- 
ed to idolize his pernicious talents must, unless 
they were lost to all sense of moral feeling, despise 
and distrust the youth who could play on the weak- 
ness of an unoffending, artless old man, and violate 
the rights of hospitality to his father's friend. 

But Marmaduke had no heart, and but little 
mind ; for mimickry is the lowest of the talents ; 
and to be even a successful quizzer requires no 
talent at all. But his father had once a heart, 
though cares and pecuniary embarrassments had 
choked it up, and substituted selfishness for sensi- 
bility : the sight of his early companion had called 
some of the latter quality into action ; and he seri- 
ously expostulated with his son on his daring to turn 
so respectable a man into ridicule. But Marma- 
duke answered him by insolent disregard ; and 
when he also said, if your friend be so silly as to 
sing, that is, do what he cannot do, am I not justi- 
fied in laughing at him ? Musgrave assented to the 
proposition. He might however have replied, 
" but you are not justified in lying, in order to urge 
him on, nor in saying, to him, " you can sing," 
when you know he cannot. If he be weak, it is 
not necessary that you should be treacherous." 
But Musgrave always came off halting from a com- 
bat with his undutiful son ; he therefore sighed, 
ceased, and turned away. On one point Marma- 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 137 

duke was right : — when vanity prompts us to do 
what we cannot do well, while conceit leads us to 
fancy that our efforts are successful, we are perhaps 
fit objects for ridicule. A consideration which 
holds up to us this important lesson ; namely, that 
our own weakness alone can, for any length of time, 
make us victims of the satire and malignity oth- 
ers. When Albany's visit to Musgrave was draw- 
ing near to its conclusion, he was very desirous of 
being asked to prolong it, as he had become at- 
tached to his friend's children, from living with 
them, and witnessing their various accomplish- 
ments, and was completely the dupe of Marma- 
duke's treacherous compliments. He was there- 
fore glad when he, as well as the Musgraves, was 
invited to dine at a house in the neighbourhood, on 
the very day intended for his departure. This cir- 
cumstance led them all, with one accord to say 
that he must remain at least a day longer, while 
Marmaduke exclaimed, " Go you shall not ! Our 
friends would be so disappointed, if they and their 
company did not hear you sing and act that sweet 
song about Chloe ! and all the pleasure of the 
evening would be destroyed to me, dear sir, if you 
were not there !" 

This was more than enough to make Albany put 
off his departure ; and he accompanied the Mus- 
graves to the dinner party. They dined at an early 
hour ; so early, that it was yet daylight, when, tea 
being over, the intended amusements of the after- 
noon began, of which the most prominent was to be 
the vocal powers of the mistaken Albany, who, 
without much pressing, after sundry flatteries from 
Marmaduke, cleared his throat, and began to sing 
and act the song of " Chloe." At first, he was 
12* 



138 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

hoarse, and stopped to apologize for want of voice ; 
" Nonsense !" cried Marmaduke, "you were never 
in better voice in your life ! Pray go on ; you are 
only nervous !" while the side of his face not next 
to Albany was distorted with laughter and ridicule, 
Albany, believing him, continued his song ; and 
Jkarmaduke, silting a little behind him, took off the 
distorted expression of his countenance and mim- 
icked his odd action. But, at this moment, the 
broadest splendour of the setting sun threw its 
beams into a large pier glass opposite, with such 
brightness, that Albany's eyes were suddenly at- 
tracted to it, and thence to his treacherous neigh- 
bour, whom he detected in the act of mimicking 
him in mouth, attitude, and expression — while be- 
hind him he saw some of the company laughing 
with a degree of violence which was all but audi- 
ble ! 

Albany paused, in speechless consternation — and 
when Marmaduke asked why " he did not go on, 
as every one was delighted," the susceptible old 
man hid his face in his hands, shocked, mortified, 
and miserable, but taught and enlightened. Mar- 
maduke however, nothing doubting, presumed to 
clap him on the back, again urging him to proceed ; 
but the indignant Albany, turning suddenly round, 
and throwing off his arm with angry vehemence, 
exclaimed, in the touching tone of wounded feeling, 
" Oh ! thou serpent, that I would have cherished 
in my bosom, was it for thee to sting me thus ? 
But I was an old fool : and the lesson, though a 
painful one, will, I trust be salutary." — " What is 
all this ? what do you mean ?" faltered out Mar- 
maduke ; but the rest of the party had not courage 
enough to speak ; and many of them rejoiced in the 
detection of baseness which, though it amused their 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 130 

depraved taste, was very offensive to their moral 
sense. "What does it mean ?" cried Albany, " I 
appeal to all present, whether they do not under- 
stand my meaning, and whether my resentment be 
not just !" — " I hope, my dear friend, that you 
acquit me," said the distressed father. — " Of all," 
he replied, " except of the fault of not having 
taught your son better morals and manners. 
Young man !" he continued, " the next time you 
exhibit any one as your butt, take care that you do 
not sit opposite a pier glass. And now, sir," ad- 
dressing himself to the master of the house, " let 
me request to have a postchaise sent for to the 
nearest town directly." — " Surely, you will not 
leave us, and in anger," cried all the Musgraves, 
Marmaduke excepted. " I hope I do not go in 
anger, but I cannot stay," cried he, u because 1 
have lost my confidence in you." The gentleman 
of the house, who thought Albany right in going, 
and wished to make him all the amends he could, 
for having allowed Marmaduke to turn him into 
ridicule, interrupted him, to say that his own car* 
riage waited his orders, and would convey him 
whithersoever he wished. " I thank you, sir, and 
accept your offer," he replied, " since the sooner I 
quit this company, in which I have so lamentably 
exposed myself, the better it will be for you, and 
for us all." Having said this, he took the agitated 
Musgrave by the hand, bowed to his wife and 
daughters, who hid their confusion under distant 
and haughty airs ; then, stepping opposite to Mar- 
maduke, who felt it difficult to meet the expression 
of that eye, on which just anger and a sense of in- 
jury had bestowed a power hitherto unknown to it, 
he addressed him thus : " Before we part, I must 
tell you, young man, that I intended, urged, I hum* 



140 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

bly trust, by virtuous considerations, to expend on 
your maintenance at college a part of that large in- 
come which I cannot spend on myself. I had also 
given orders to my agent to purchase for me the 
advowson of a living now on sale, intending to give 
it to you ; here is the letter, to prove that I speak 
the truth ; but I need not tell you that I cannot 
make the fortune which was left me by a pious 
friend assist a youth to take on himself the sacred 
profession of a christian minister, who can utter 
falsehoods, in order to betray a fellow-creature into 
folly, utterly regardless of that christian precept, 
" Do unto others as ye would that others should do 
unto you." He then took leave of the rest of the 
company, and drove off, leaving the Musgraves 
chagrined and ashamed, and bitterly mortified at 
the loss of the intended patronage to Marmaduke, 
especially when a gentleman present exclaimed, 
" No doubt, this is the Dr. Albany, to whom 
Clewes of Trinity left his large fortune !" 

Albany, taught by his misadventure in this world- 
ly and treacherous family, went, soon after, to the 
abode of another of his college friends, residing 
near Cheltenham. He expected to find this gen- 
tleman and his family in unclouded prosperity ; but 
they were labouring under unexpected adversity, 
brought on them by the villany of others : he found 
them however bowed in lowly resignation before the 
inscrutable decree. On the pious son of these re- 
duced, but contented, parents he, in due time, be- 
stowed the living intended for the treacherous Mar- 
maduke. Under their roof he experienced grati- 
tude which he felt to be sincere, and affection 
in which he dared to confide ; and, ultimately, he 
took up his abode with them, in a residence suited 
to their early prospects and his riches ; for even the 



LIES OP BENEVOLENCE. 141 

artless and unsuspecting can, without danger, asso- 
ciate and sojourn with those whose thoughts and 
actions are under the guidance of religious princi- 
ple, and who live in this world as if they every hour 
expected to be summoned away to the judgment of 
a world to come. 



CHAPTER X. 

LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 

In a former chapter I commented on those lies 
which are, at best, of a mixed nature, and are made 
up of worldly motives, of which fear and selfishness 
compose the principal part, although the utterer of 
them considers them as lies of benevolence. 

Lies of real benevolence are, like most other 
falsehoods, various in their species and degrees ; 
but, as they are, however in fact objectionable, the 
most amiable and respectable of all lies, and seem 
so like virtue that they may easily be taken for her 
children ; and as the illustrations of them, which I 
have been enabled to give, are so much more con- 
nected with our tenderest and most solemn feelings, 
than those afforded by other lies ; I thought it right 
that, like the principal figures in a procession, they 
should bring up the rear. 

The lies which relations and friends generally 
think it their duty to tell an unconsciously dying 
person, are prompted by real benevolence, as are 
those which medical men deem themselves justified 
{ in uttering to a dying patient ; though, if the per- 
son dying, or the surrounding friends, be strictly re- 



142 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

iigious characters, they must be, on principle, de- 
sirous that the whole truth should be told.* 



* Richard Pearson, the distinguished author of the life of 
William Hey of Leeds, says, in that interesting book, p. 261, 
u Mr. Hey's sacred respect for truth, and his regard for the wel- 
fare of his fellow-creatures, never permitted him intentionally 
to deceive his patients by flattering representations of their state 
of health, by assurances of the existence of no danger, when 
he conceived their situation to be hopeless, or even greatly haz- 
ardous. " The duty of a medical attendant," continues he, 
c< in such delicate situations, has been a subject of considerable 
embarrassment to men of integrity and conscience, who view 
the uttering of a falsehood as a crime, and the practice of.de- 
ceit as repugnant to the spirit of Christianity. That a sacrifice 
of truth may sometimes contribute to the comfort of a patient, 
and be medicinally beneficial, is not denied ; but that a wilful 
and deliberate falsehood can, in any case, be justifiable before 
God, is a maxim not to be lightly admitted. The question may 
be stated thus : Is it justifiable for a man deliberately to violate 
a moral precept of the law of God, from a motive of prudence 
and humanity ? If this be affirmed, it must be admitted that it 
would be no less justifiable to infringe the laws of his country 
from similar motives ; and, consequently, it would be an act of 
injustice to punish him for such a transgression. But, will it be 
contended, that the divine, or even the human legislature, must 
be subjected to the control 6f this sort of casuistry? If false- 
hood, under these circumstances, be no crime, then, as no det- 
riment can result from uttering it, very little merit can be at- 
tached to so light a sacrifice ; whereas, if it were presumed 
that some guilt were incurred, and that the physician voluntari- 
ly exposed himself to the danger of future suffering, for the sake 
of procuring temporary benefit to his patient, he would have a 
high claim upon the gratitude of those who derived the advan- 
tage. But, is it quite clear that pure benevolence commonly 
suggests the deviation from truth, and that neither the low con- 
sideration of conciliating favour, nor the view of escaping cen- 
sure, and promoting his own interest, have any share in prompt- 
ing him to adopt the measure he defends ? To assist in this 
enquiry, let a man ask himself whether he carries this caution, 
and shows this kindnes, indiscriminately on all occasions ; be- 
ing as fearful of giving pain, by exciting apprehension in the 
mind of the poor, as of the rich ; of the meanest, as of the most 
elevated rank. Suppose it can be shown that these humane 
falsehoods are distributed promiscuously, it may be inquired 
further, whether, if such a proceeding were a manifest breach of 
a municipal law, exposing the delinquent to suffer a very incon- 
renieat and serious punishment, a medical adviser would feel 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 143 

Methinks I hear some of my readers exclaim, 
can any one suppose it a duty to run the risk of 
killing friends or relations, by telling the whole 
truth ; that is, informing them that they are dying ! 
But, if the patients be not really dying, or in dan- 
ger, no risk is incurred ; and if they be near death, 
which is it of most importance to consider, — their 
momentary quiet here, or their interests hereafter ? 
Besides, many of those persons who would think 
that, for spiritual reasons merely, a disclosure of the 
truth was improper, and who declare that, on such 
occasions, falsehood is virtue, and concealment, 
humanity, would hold a different language, and act 
differently, were the unconsciously-dying person 
one who was known not to have made a will, and 
who had considerable property to dispose of. Then, 
consideration for their own temporal interests, or 
for those of others, would probably make them ad- 
vise or adopt a contrary proceeding. Yet, who 



himself obliged to expose his person or his estate to penal con- 
sequences, whenever the circumstances of his patient should 
seem to require the intervention of a falsehood. It may he pre- 
sumed, without any breach of charity, that a demur would fre- 
quently, perhaps generally, be interposed on the occasion of 
such a requisition. But, surely, the laws of the Moral Governor 
of the universe are not to be esteemed less sacred, and a trans- 
gression of them less important in its consequences, than the 
violation of a civil statute ; nor ought the fear of God to be 
less powerful in deterring men from the committing of a crime, 
than the fear of a magistrate. Those who contend for the ne- 
cessity of violating truth, that they may benefit their patients, 
place themselves between two conflicting rules of moralily ; 
their obligation to ohey the command of God, and their presum- 
ed duty to their neighbour: or, in other words, they are sup- 
posed to be brought by the Divine Providence into this distress- 
ing alternative of necessarily sinning against God or in their 
fellow-creatures. When a moral and a positive duty stand op- 
posed to each other, the Holy Scriptures have determined that 
obedience to the former is to be preserved, before compliance 
with the latter." 



144 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

that seriously reflects can, for a moment, put world- 
ly interests in any comparison with those of a spirit- 
ual nature ? But, perhaps, an undue preference 
of worldly over spiritual interests might not be the 
leading motive to tell the truth in the one case, and 
withhold it in the other. The persons in question 
would probably be influenced by the conviction sat- 
isfactory to them, but awfully erroneous in my ap- 
prehension, that a death-bed repentance, and death- 
bed supplication, must be wholly unavailing for the 
soul of the departing ; that, as the sufferer's work, 
for himself, is wholly done, and his fate fixed for 
time, and for eternity, it were needless cruelty to 
let him know his end was approaching ; but, that 
as his work for others is not done, if he has not 
made a testamentary disposal of his property, it is a 
duty to urge him to make a will, even at all risk, to 
himself. 

My own opinion, which I give with great humili- 
ty, is, that the truth is never to be violated or with- 
held, in order to deceive ; but I know myself to 
be in such a painful minority on this subject, that I 
almost doubt the correctness of my own judgment. 

I am inclined to think that lies of Benevolence 
are more frequently passive, than active, — are more 
frequently instanced in withholding and concealing 
the truth, than in direct spontaneous lying. There 
is one instance of withholding and concealing the 
truth from motives of mistaken benevolence, which 
is so common, and so pernicious, that I feel it par- 
ticularly necessary to hold it up to severe reprehen- 
sion. It is withholding or speaking only hatf the 
truth in giving the character of a servant. 

Many persons, from reluctance to injure the in- 
terests even of very unworthy servants, never give 
the whole character unless it be required of them, 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 145 

and then, rather that tell a positive lie, they disclose 
the whole truth. But are they not lying, that is, 
are they not meaning to deceive, when they with- 
hold, the truth ? 

When I speak to ladies and gentlemen respecting 
the character of a servant, I of course conclude that 
I am speaking to honourable persons. I therefore 
expect that they should give me a correct charac- 
ter of the domestick in question ; and should I omit 
to ask whether he, or she, be honest, or sober, I re- 
quire that information on these points should be 
given me unreservedly. They must leave me to 
judge whether 1 will run the risk of hiring a drunk- 
ard, a thief, or a servant otherwise ill-disposed ; 
but they would be dishonourable if they betrayed 
me into receiving into my family, to the risk of my 
domestick peace, or my property, those who are 
addicted to dishonest practices, or are otherwise of 
immoral habits. Besides, what an erroneous and 
bounded benevolence this conduct exhibits ! If it 
be benevolent towards the servant whom I hire, it 
is malevolent towards me, and unjust also. True 
christian kindness is just and impartial in its deal- 
ings, and never serves even a friend at the expense 
of a third person. But, the masters and mistresses, 
who thus do what they call a benevolent action at 
the sacrifice of truth and integrity, often, no doubt, 
find their sin visited on their own heads ; for they 
are not likely to have trust-worthy servants. If 
servants know that, owing to the sinful kindness and 
lax morality of their employers, their faults will not 
receive their proper punishment — that of disclosure, 
— when they are turned away, one of the most 
powerful motives to behave well is removed ; for 
those are not likely to abstain from sin, who are 
13 



146 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

sure that they shall sin with impunity. Thus, then, 
the master or mistress who, in mistaken kindness 
conceals the fault of a single servant, leads the rest 
of the household into the temptation of sinning also ; 
and what is fancied to be benevolent to one be- 
comes, in its consequences, injurious to many. 
But, let us now see what is the probable effect on 
the servants so skreened and befriended ? They 
are instantly exposed, by this withholding of the 
truth, to the perils of temptation. Nothing, per- 
haps, can be more beneficial to culprits, of all de- 
scriptions, than to be allowed to take the immediate 
consequences of their offences, provided those con- 
sequences stop short of death, that most awful of 
punishments, because it cuts the offender off from 
all means of amendment ; therefore it were better 
for the interests of servants, in every point of view, 
to let them abide by the certainty of not getting a 
new place, because they cannot have a character 
from their last : by this means the humane wish to 
punish, in order to save, would be gratified, and, 
consequently, if the truth was always told on occa- 
sions of this nature, the feelings of real benevo- 
lence would, in the end, be gratified. But, if 
good characters are given with servants, or incom- 
plete characters, that is, if their good qualities are 
mentioned, and their bad withheld, the consequen- 
ces to the beings so mistakenly befriended may be 
of the most fatal nature ; for, if ignorant of their 
besetting sin, the heads of the family cannot guard 
against it, but, unconsciously, may every hour put 
temptations in their way ; while, on the contrary, 
had they been made acquainted with that besetting 
sin, they would have taken care never to have risk- 
ed its being called into action. 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 147 

But who, it may be asked, would hire servants, 
knowing that they had any " besetting sins ?" 

I trust that there are many who would do this 
from the pious and benevolent motive of saving 
them from further destruction, especially if peni- 
tence had been satisfactorily manifested. 

I will now endeavour to illustrate some of my po- 
sitions by the following story. 



CHAPTER X. CONTINUED. 

MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 

Ann Belson had lived in a respectable mer- 
chant's family, of the name of Melbourne, for many 
years, and had acquitted herself to the satisfaction 
of her employers in the successive capacities of 
nurse, house-maid, and lady's-maid. But it was 
at length discovered that she had long been addict- 
ed to petty pilfering ; and, being emboldened by 
past impunity, she purloined some valuable lace, 
and was detected : but her kind master and mis- 
tress could not prevail on themselves to give up the 
tender nurse of their children to the just rigour of 
the law, and as their children themselves could not 
bear to have " poor Ann sent to gaol," they resolv- 
ed to punish her in no other manner, than by turn- 
ing her away without a character, as the common 
phrase is. But without a character she could not 
procure another service, and might be thus con- 
signed to misery and ruin. This idea was insup- 
portable I However she might deserve punish- 



148 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

merit they shrunk from inflicting it ! and they re- 
solved to keep Ann BeJson themselves, as they 
could not recommend her conscientiously to any 
one else. This was a truly benevolent action ; be- 
cause, if she continued to sin, they alone were ex- 
posed to suffer from her fault. But they virtuously 
resolved to put no further temptation in her way, 
and to guard her against herself, by unremitting 
vigilance. 

During the four succeeding years, Ann Belson's 
honesty was so entirely without a stain, that her be- 
nevolent friends were convinced that her penitence 
was sincere, and congratulated themselves that they 
had treated her with such lenity. 

At this period the pressure of the times, and 
losses in trade, produced a change in the circum- 
stances of the Melbournes ; and retrenchment be- 
came necessary. They, therefore, felt it right to 
discharge some of their servants, and particularly 
the lady's maid. 

The grateful Ann would not hear of this dismis- 
sal. She insisted on remaining on any terms, and 
in any situation ; nay, she declared her willingness 
to live with her indulgent friends for nothing ; but, 
as they were too generous to accept her services at 
so great a disadvantage to herself, especially as she 
had poor relations to maintain, they resolved to pro- 
cure her a situation ; and having heard of a very 
advantageous one, for which she was admirably 
calculated, they insisted on her trying to procure it. 

" But what shall we do, my dear," said the wife 
to the husband, " concerning Ann's character ? 
Must we tell the whole truth ? As she- has been 
uniformly honest during the last four years, should 
we not be justified in concealing her fault ?" — 
" Yes 5 I think, at least, I hope so," replied he, 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 149 

" Still, as she was dishonest more years than she 
has now been honest, I really .... I .... it 
is a very puzzling question, Charlotte ; and I am 
but a weak casuist." A strong christian might not 
have felt the point so difficult. But the Mel- 
bournes had not studied serious things deeply ; and 
the result of the consultation was, that Ann Belson's 
past faults should be concealed, if possible. 

And possible it was. Lady Baryton, the young 
and noble bride who wished to hire her, was a 
thoughtless, careless woman of fashion ; and as she 
learned that Ann could make dresses, and dress 
hair to admiration, she made few other inquiries $ 
and Ann was installed in her new place. 

It was, alas 1 the most improper of places, even 
for a sincere penitent, like Ann Belson ; for it was 
a place of the most dangerous trust. Jewels, laces, 
ornaments of all kinds, were not only continually 
exposed to her eyes, but placed under her especial 
care. Not those alone. When her lady returned 
home from a run of good luck at loo, a reticule, 
containing bank-notes and sovereigns, was emptied 
into an unlocked drawer ; and Ann was told how 
fortunate her lady had been. The first time that 
this heedless woman acted thus, the poor Ann beg- 
ged she would lock up her money. " Not I ; it is 
too much trouble ; and why should I ?" — " Be- 
cause, my lady, it is not right to leave money about ; 
it may be stolen." — " Nonsense ! who should steal 
it ? I know you must be honest ; the Melbournes 
gave you such a high character." Here Ann turn- 
ed away in agony and confusion. " But, my lady, 
the other servants," she resumed in a faint voice. 
" Pray, what business have the other servants at my 
drawers ? — However, do you lock up the drawer, 
13* 



X50 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and keep the key." — " No ; keep it yourself, my 
lady." — " What, I go about with keys, like a house- 
keeper ? Take it I say ! ; ' Then flinging the key 
down, she went singing out of the room, little think- 
ing to what peril, temporal and spiritual, she was 
exposing a hapless fellow-creature. 

For some minutes after this new danger had 
opened upon her, Ann sat leaning on her hands, 
absorbed in painful meditation, and communing 
seriously with her own heart ; nay, she even pray- 
ed for a few moments to be delivered from evil ; 
but the next minute she was ashamed of her own 
self-distrust, and tried to resume her business with 
her usual alacrity. 

A few evenings afterwards, her lady brought her 
reticule home, and gave it to Ann, filled as before. 
" I conclude, my lady, you know how much money 
is in this purse."—" I did know ; but I have for- 
gotten." — " Then let me tell it." — " No, no ; non- 
sense !" she replied as she left the room ; " lock 
it up, and then it will be safe, you know, as I can 
trust you." Ann sighed deeply, but repeated with- 
in herself, " Yes, yes ; I am certainly now to be 
trusted ;" but, as she said this, she saw two sove- 
reigns on the carpet, which she had dropped out of 
the reticule in emptying it, and had locked the 
drawer without perceiving. Ann felt fluttered 
when she discovered them ; but, taking them up, 
resolutely felt for the key to add them to the oth- 
ers ; — but the image of her recently widowed sister, 
and her large destitute family, rose before her, and 
she thought she would not return them, but ask her 
.lady to give them to the poor widow. But then, 
her lady had already been very bountiful to her, and 
she would not ask her ; however, she would con- 
sider the matter, and it seemed as if it was intended 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 151 

she should have the sovereigns ; for they were sep- 
arated from the rest, as if for her. Alas ! it would 
have been safer for her to believe that they were 
left there as a snare to try her penitence, and her" 
faith ; but she took a different view of it ; she pick- 
ed up the gold, then laid it down ; and long and 
severe was the conflict in her heart between good 
and evil. 

We weep over the woes of romance ; we shed 
well-motived tears over the sorrows of real life ; 
but, where is the fiction, however highly wrought, 
and where the sorrows, however acute, that can 
deserve our pity and our sympathy so strongly, as 
the agony and conflicts of a penitent, yet tempted 
soul ! Of a soul that has turned to virtue, but is 
forcibly pulled back again to vice, — that knows its 
own danger, without power to hurry from it ; till, 
fascinated by the glittering bait, as the bird by the 
rattlesnake, it yields to its fatal allurements, regard- 
less of consequences ! It was not without many a 
heartach, many a struggle, that Ann Belson gave 
way to the temptation, and put the gold in her 
pocket ; and when she had done so, she was told 
her sister was ill, and had sent to beg she would 
come to her, late as it was. Accordingly, when 
her lady was in bed, she obtained leave to go to 
her, and while she relieved her sister's wants with 
the two purloined sovereigns, the poor thing almost 
fancied that she had done a good action ! Oh ! 
never is sin so dangerous as when it has allured us 
in the shape of a deed of benevolence. It had so 
allured the Melbournes when they concealed Ann's 
faults from Lady Baryton ; and its bitter fruits 
were only too fast preparing. 

" Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute ;" says 
the proverb, or " the first step is the only difficult 



152 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

one." The next time her lady brought her win- 
nings to her, Ann pursued a new plan : she insisted 
on telling the money over ; but took care to make 
it less than it was, by two or three pounds. Not 
long after, she told Lady Baryton that she must 
have a new lock put on the drawer that held the 
money, as she had certainly dropped the key some' 
wherjs ; and that, before she missed it, some one, 
she^ was sure, had been trying at the lock ; for it 
was evidently hampered the last time she unlocked 
it. " Well, then, get a new lock," replied her 
careless mistress ; " however, let the drawer be 
forced now ; and then we had better tell over the 
money." The drawer was forced ; they told the 
money ; and even Lady Baryton was conscious 
that some of it was missing. But, the missing key, 
and hampered lock, exonerated Ann from suspicion ; 
especially as Ann owned that she had discovered 
the loss before ; and declared that, had not her la- 
dy insisted on telling over the money, she had in- 
tended to replace it gradually ; because she felt 
herself responsible : while Lady Baryton, satisfied 
and deceived, recommended her to be on the 
watch for the thief ; and soon forgot the whole cir- 
cumstance. 

Lady Baryton thought herself, and perhaps she was, 
a woman of feeling. She never read the Old-Bailey 
convictions without mourning over the prisoners con- 
demned to death ; and never read an account of an 
execution without shuddering. Still, from want of 
reflection, and a high-principled sense of what we 
owe to others, especially to those who are the mem- 
bers of our own household, she never for one mo- 
ment troubled herself to remember that she was 
daily throwing temptations in the way of a servant 
to commit the very faults which led those convicts. 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. l5o 

whom she pitied, to the fate which she deplored. 
Alas ! what have those persons to answer for, in 
every situation of life, who consider their depen- 
dants and servants merely as such, without remem- 
bering that they are, like themselves, heirs of the 
invisible world to come ; and that, if they take no 
pains to enlighten their minds, in order to save their 
immortal souls, they should, at least be careful 
never to endanger them. 

In a few weeks after the dialogue given above, 
Lady Baryton bought some strings of pearls at an 
India sale ; and having, on her way thence, shown 
them to her jeweller, that he might count them, 
and see if there were enough to make a pair of 
bracelets, she brought them home, because she 
could not yet afford proper clasps to fasten them ; 
and these were committed to Ann's care. But, as 
Lord Baryton, the next week, gave his lady a pair 
of diamond clasps, she sent the pearls to be made 
up immediately. In the evening, however, the 
jeweller came to tell her that there were two strings 
less than when she brought them before. " Then 
they must have been stolen !" she exclaimed ; " and 
now I remember that Belson told me she was sure 
there was a thief in the house." — " Are you sure," 
said Lord Baryton, " that Belson is not the thief 
herself ?" — " Impossible ! I had such a character 
of her ! and I have trusted her implicitly !" — " It 
is not right to tempt even the most honest," replied 
Lord Baryton ; " but we must have strict search 
made ; and all the servants must be examined." 

They were so ; but, as Ann Belson was not a 
hardened offender, she soon betrayed herself by 
her evident misery and terror ; and was committed 
to prison on her own full confession ; but she could 
not help exclaiming, in the agony of her heart, 



154 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

u Oh, my lady ! remember that I conjured you 
not to trust me !" and Lady Bary ton's heart re- 
proached her, at least for some hours. There were 
other hearts also that experienced self-reproach, 
and of a far longer duration ; for the Melbournes, 
when they heard what had happened, saw that the 
seeming benevolence of their concealment had been 
a real injury, and had ruined her whom they meant 
to save. They saw that, had they told Lady 
Baryton the truth, that lady would either not have 
hired her, in spite of her skill, or she would have 
taken care not to put her in situations calculated to 
tempt her cupidity. But, neither Lady Baryton's 
regrets, nor self-reproach., nor the greater agonies 
of the Melbournes, could alter or avert the course 
of justice ; and Ann Bdson was condemned to 
death. She was, however, strongly recommended 
to mercy, both by the jury and the noble prosecu- 
tor ; and her conduct in prison was so exemplary, 
so indicative of the deep contrition of a trembling, 
humble christian, that, at length, the intercession 
was not in vain ; and the Melbournes had the com- 
fort of carrying to her what was to them, at least, 
joyful news ; namely, that her sentence was com- 
muted for transportation. 

Yet, even this mercy was a severe trial to the 
self-judged Melbournes ; since they had the misery 
of seeing the affectionate nurse of their children, 
the being endeared to them by many years of ac- 
tive services, torn from all the tender ties of ex- 
istence, and exiled for life as a felon to a distant 
land ! exiled too for a crime which, had they per- 
formed their social duty, she might never have 
committed. But the pain of mind which they en- 
dured on this lamentable occasion was not thrown 
away on them } as it awakened them to serious re~ 



Mistaken kindness. 155 

flection : they learned to remember, and to teach 
their children to remember, the holy command, 
" that we are not to do evil, that good may come ;" 
and that no deviation from truth and ingenuousness 
can be justified, even if it claims for itself the plaus- 
ible title of the active or passive lie of benevo- 
lence. 

There is another species of withholding the truth, 
which springs from so amiable a source, and is so. 
often practised even by pious christians, that, while 
I venture to say it is at variance with reliance on 
the wisdom and mercy of the Creator, I do so with 
reluctant awe. I mean a concealment of the whole 
extent of a calamity from the person afflicted, lest 
the blow should fall too heavily upon them. 

I would ask, whether such conduct be not incon- 
sistent with the belief that trials are mercies in dis- 
guise ? that the Almighty " loveth those whom he 
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son that he re- 
ceiveth ?" 

If this assurance be true, we set our own judg- 
ment against that of the Deity, by concealing from 
the sufferer the extent of the trial inflicted : and 
seem to believe ourselves more capable than he is 
to determine the quantity of suffering that is good 
for the person so visited ; and we set up our finite 
against infinite wisdom. 

There are other reasons, besides religious ones, 
why this sort of deceit should no more be practised 
than any other. 

The motive for withholding the whole truth, on 
these occasions, is to do good : but will the desired 
good be effected by this opposition to the Creator's 
revealed will towards the sufferer ? Is it certain 
that good will be performed at all, or that conceal- 
ment is necessary . ? 



156 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

What is the reason given for concealing half the 
truth f Fear, lest the whole would be more than 
the sufferer could bear ; which implies that it is al- 
ready mighty, to an awful degree. Then, surely, 
a degree more of suffering, at such a moment, can- 
not possess much added power to destroy ; and if 
the trial be allowed to come in its full force, the 
mind of the victim will make exactly the same ef- 
forts as minds always do when oppressed by misery. 
A state of heavy affliction is so repulsive to the 
feelings, that even in the first paroxysms of it we 
all make efforts to get away from under its weight ; 
and, in proof of this assertion, I ask, whether we 
do not always find the afflicted less cast down than 
we • expected ? The religious pray as well as 
weep : the merely moral look around for consola- 
tion here, and, as a dog, when cast into the sea, as 
soon as he rises and regains his breath, strikes out 
his feet, in order to float securely upon the waves ; 
so, be their sorrows great or small, all persons in- 
stantly strive to find support somewhere ; and they 
do find it, while in proportion to the depth of the 
affliction is often the subsequent rebound. 

I could point out instances (but I shall leave my 
readers to imagine them) in which, by concealing 
from the bereaved sufferers the most affecting part 
of the truth, we stand between them and the balm 
derived from that very incident which was merci- 
fully intended to heal their wounds. 

I also object to such concealment ; because it 
entails upon those whose are guilty of it a series of 
falsehoods ; falsehoods too, which are often fruitless- 
ly uttered ; since the object of them is apt to sus- 
pect deceit, and endure that restless agonizing sus- 
picion, which those who have ever experienced it 
could never inflict on the objects of their love. 



THE FATHER AND SON. 153 

Besides, religion and reason enable us, in time, 
to bear the calamity of which we know the extent ; 
but we are always on the watch to find out that 
which we only suspect, and the mind's strength, 
frittered away in vain and varied conjectures, runs the 
risk of sinking beneath the force of its own indis- 
tinct fears. 

Confidence too in those dear friends whom we 
trusted before is liable to be entirely destroyed ; 
and, in all its bearings, this well-intentioned de- 
parture from truth is pregnant with mischief. 

Lastly, I object to such concealment, from a con- 
viction that its continuance is impossible ; for, 
some time or other, the whole truth is revealed at a 
moment when the sufferers are not so well able to 
bear it as they were in the first paroxysms of grief. 

In this, my next and last tale, I give another il- 
lustration of those amiable, but pernicious lies, the 

LIES OF REAL BENEVOLENCE. 



THE FATHER AND SON. 

" Well, then, thou art willing that Edgar should 
go to a public school," said the vicar of a small 
parish in Westmoreland to his weeping wife. 
" Quite willing." — " And yet thou art in tears, 
Susan ?" — " I weep for his faults ; and not be- 
cause he is to quit us. I grieve to think he is so 
disobedient and unruly that we can manage him at 
home no longer. — And yet I loved him so dearly ! 
so much more than . . . ." Here her sobs re- 
14 



158 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

doubled ; and, as Vernon rested her aching head 
on his bosom, he said, in a low voice, " Aye ; and 
so did I love him, even better than our other chil- 
dren ; and therefore, probably, our injustice is thus 
visited. But, he is so clever ! He learned more 
Latin in a week than his brothers in a month !" — 
" And he is so beautiful /" observed his mother. 
" And so generons !" rejoined his father ; " but, 
cheer up, my beloved ; under stricter discipline 
than ours he may yet do well, and turn out all we 
could wish." — ■" I hope, however," replied the 
fond mother, " that his master will not be very 
severe ; and I will try to look forward." As she 
said this, she left her husband with something like 
comfort ; for a tender mother's hopes for a darling 
child are easily revived, and she went, with recov- 
ered calmness, to get her son's wardrobe ready 
against the day of his departure. The equally af- 
fectionate father meanwhile called his son into the 
study, to prepare his mind for that parting which 
his undutiful conduct had made unavoidable. 

But Vernon found that Edgar's mind required 
no preparation ; that the idea of change was de- 
lightful to his volatile nature ; and that he panted 
to distinguish himself on a wider field of action than 
a small retired village afforded to his daring, rest- 
less spirit ; while his father saw with agony, which 
he could but ill conceal, that this desire of entering 
into a new situation had power to annihilate all re- 
gret at leaving the tenderestof parents and the 
companions of his childhood. 

However, his feelings were a little soothed when 
the parting hour arrived ; for then the heart of 
Edgar was so melted within him at the sight of his 
mother's tears, and his father's agony, that he utter- 
ed words of tender contrition, such as they had 



THE FATHER AND SON. 159 

never heard from him before ; the recollection of 
which spoke comfort to their minds when they be- 
held him no longer. 

But, short were the hopes which that parting 
hour had excited. In a few months the master of 
the school wrote to complain of the insubordination 
of his new pupil. In his next letter he declared 
that he should soon be under the necessity of ex- 
pelling him ; and Edgar had not been at school six 
months, before he prevented the threatened expul- 
sion, only by running away, no one knew whither ! 
Nor was he heard of by his family for four years ; 
during which time, not even the dutiful affection of 
their other sons, nor their success in life, had pow- 
er to heal the breaking heart of the mother, nor 
cheer the depressed spirits of the father. At length 
the prodigal returned, ill, meagre, penniless, and 
penitent ; and was received, and forgiven. *j But 
where hast thou been, my child, this long, long 
time ?" said his mother, tenderly weeping, as she 
gazed on his pale sunk cheek. " Ask me no 
questions ! I am here ; that is enough ;" Edgar 
Vernon replied, shuddering as he spake. " It is 
enough !" cried his mother, throwing herself on his 
neck ! " For this, my son, was dead, and is alive 
again ; was lost, and is found !" But the father felt 
and thought differently : he knew that it was his duty 
to interrogate his son ; and he resolved to insist on 
knowing where and how those long four years had 
been passed. He, however, delayed his questions 
till Edgar's health was re-established, but when 
that time arrived, he told him that he expected to 
know all that had befallen him since he ran away 
from school." — " Spare me till to-morrow," said 
Edgar Vernon, " and then you shall know all." 
His father acquiesced ; but the next morning Edgar 



160 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

bad disappeared, leaving the^follofiing letter behind 
him : — 

" I cannot, dare not, tell you what a wretch I 
have been ! though I own your right to demand 
such a confession from me. Therefore, I must be- 
come a wanderer again ! Pray for me, dearest 
and tenderest of mothers ! Pray for me, best of 
fathers and of men ! I dare not pray for myself, 
for I am a vile and wretched sinner, though your 
grateful and affectionate son, E. V." 

Though this letter nearly drove the mother to 
distraction, it contained for the father a degree of 
soothing comfort. She dwelt only on the convic- 
tion which it held out to her, that she should pro- 
bably never behold her son again ; but he dwelt 
with pious thankfulness on the sense of his guilt, ex- 
pressed by the unhappy writer ; trusting that the 
sinner who knows and owns himself to be " vile " 
may, when it is least expected of him, repent and 
amend. 

How had those four years been paseed by Edgar 
Vernon ? That important period of a boy's life, 
the years from fourteen to eighteen . ? Suffice it 
that, under a feigned name, in order that he might 
not be traced, he had entered on board a merchant 
ship ; that he had left it after he had made one 
voyage ; that he was taken into the service of what 
is called a sporting character, whom he had met 
on board ship, who saw that Edgar had talents and 
spirit which he might render serviceable to his own 
pursuits. This man, finding he was the son of a 
gentleman, treated him as such, and initiated him 
gradually into the various arts of gambling, and the 
vices of the metropolis ; but one night they were 
both surprised by the officers of justice at a noted 
gaming-house ; and, after a desperate scuffle, Ed- 



THE FATHER AND SON. 161 

gar escaped wounded, and nearly killed, to a house 
in the suburbs. There he remained till he was safe 
from pursuit, and then, believing himself in danger 
of dying, he longed for the comfort of his paternal 
roof ; he also longed for paternal forgiveness ; and 
the prodigal returned to his forgiving parents. 

But, as this was a tale which Edgar might well 
shrink from relating to a pure and pious father, flight 
was far easier than such a confession. Still, " so 
deceitful is the human heart, and desperately wick- 
ed," that 1 believe Edgar was beginning to feel the 
monotony of his life at home, and therefore was 
glad of an excuse to justify to himself his desire to 
escape into scenes more congenial to his habits 
and, now, perverted nature. His father, however, 
continued to hope for his reformation, and was 
therefore little prepared for the next intelligence of 
his son, which reached him through a private chan- 
nel. A friend wrote to inform him that Edgar was 
taken up for having passed forged notes, knowing 
them to be forgeries ; that he would soon be fully 
committed to prison for trial ; and would be tried 
with his accomplices at the ensuing assizes for Mid- 
dlesex. 

At first, even the firmness of Vernon yielded to 
the stroke, and he was bowed low unto the earth. 
But the confiding christian struggled against the 
sorrows of the suffering father, and overcame them ; 
till, at last, he was able to exclaim, " I will go to 
him ! I will be near him at his trial ! I will be 
near him even at his death, if death be his portion ! 
And no doubt, I shall be permitted to awaken him 
to a sense of his guilt. Yes, I may be permitted to 
see him expire contrite before God and man, and 
calling on his name who is able to save to the utter- 
14* 



162 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

most !" But, just as he was setting off for Mid- 
dlesex, his wife, who had long been declining, was, 
to all appearance, so much worse, that he could not 
leave her. She having had suspicions that all was 
not right with Edgar, contrived to discover the 
truth, which had been kindly, but erroneously, 
concealed from her, and had sunk under the sud- 
den, unmitigated blow ; and the welcome intelli- 
gence, that the prosecutor had withdrawn the 
charge, came at a moment when the sorrows of the 
bereaved husband had closed the father's heart 
against the voice of gladness. 

" This news came too late to save the poor vic- 
tim !" he exclaimed, as he knelt beside the corpse 
of her whom he had loved so long and so tender- 
ly ; " and I feel that I cannot, cannot yet rejoice in 
it as I ought." B.t he soon repented of this un- 
grateful return to the mercy of Heaven ; and, even 
before the body was consigned to the grave, he 
thankfully acknowledged that the liberation of his 
son was a ray amidst the gloom that surrounded 
him. 

Meanwhile, Edgar Vernon, when unexpectedly 
liberated from what he knew to be certain danger 
to his life, resolved on the ground of having been 
falsely taken up, and as an innocent injured man, 
to visit his parents ; for he had heard of his mother's 
illness ; and his heart yearned to behold her once 
more. But it was only in the dark hour that he 
dared venture to approach his home : and it was. 
his intention to discover himself at first to his mo- 
ther only. 

Accordingly, the gray personage was scarcely 
visible in the shadows of twilight, when he reached 
the gate that led to the back door ; at which he 
gently knocked, but in vain. No one answered his 



THE FATHER AND SON. 163 

knock ; all was still within and around. What 
could this mean ? He then walked round the 
house, and looked in at the window ; all there was 
dark and quiet as the grave ; but the church b.ell 
was tolling, while alarmed, awed, and overpowered, 
he leaned against the gate. At this moment he saw 
two men rapidly pass along the road, saying, " I 
fear we shall be too late for the funeral ! I wonder 
how the poor old man will bear it ! for he loved 
his wife dearly !" — " Aye ; and so he did that 
wicked boy, who has been the death of her ;" re- 
plied the other. 

These words shot like an arrow through the not 
yet callous heart of Edgar Vernon, and, throwing 
himself on the ground, he groaned aloud in his ag- 
ony ; but the next minute, with the speed of des- 
peration, he ran towards the church, and reached 
it just as the service was over, the mourners depart- 
ing, and as his father was borne away, nearly in- 
sensible, on the arms of his virtuous sons. 

At such a moment Edgar was able to enter the 
church unheeded ; for all eyes were on his afflict- 
ed parent ; and the self-convicted culprit dared not 
force himself, at a time like that, on the notice of 
the father whom he had so grievously injured. 
But his poor bursting heart felt that it must vent 
its agony, or break ; and, ere the coffin was lowered 
into the vault, he rushed forwards, and, throwing 
himself across it, called upon his mother's name, in 
an accent so piteous and appalling, that the assis- 
tants, though they did not recognize him at first, 
were unable to drive him away ; so awed, so af- 
fected, were they by the agony which they wit- 
nessed. 

At length he rose up an dendeavoured to speak, 
but in vain ; then, holding his clenched fists to his 



164 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

forehead, he screamed out, " Heaven preserve my 
senses !" and rushed from the church with all the 
speed of desperation. But whither should he turn 
those desperate steps ! He longed, earnestly long- 
ed, to go and humble himself before his father, and 
implore that pardon for which his agonized soul 
pined. But, alas ! earthly pride forbade him to in- 
dulge the salutary feeling ; for he knew his worthy, 
unoffending brothers were in the house, and he 
could not endure the mortification of encountering 
those whose virtues must be put in comparison with 
his vices. He therefore cast one long lingering 
look at the abode of his childhood, and fled for ever 
from the house of mourning, humiliation, and 
safety. 

In a few days, however, he wrote to his father, 
detailing his reasons for visiting home, and all the 
agonies which he had experienced during his short 
stay. Full of consolation was this letter to that 
bereaved and mourning heart ! for to him it seem- 
ed the language of contrition ; and he lamented 
that his beloved wife was not alive, to share in the 
hope which it gave him. " Would that he had 
come, or would now come to me !" he exclaimed ; 
but the letter had no date ; and he knew not whith- 
er to send an invitation. But, where was he, and 
what was he, at that period f In gambling-houses, 
at cock-fights, sparring-matches, fairs ; and in every 
scene where profligacy prevailed the most ; while 
at all these places he had a preeminence in skill, 
which endeared these pursuits to him, and made 
his occasional contrition powerless to influence him 
to amendment of life. He therefore continued to 
disregard the warning voice within him ; till at 
length, it was no longer heeded. 

One night, when on his way to Y — *— , where 



THE FATHER AND SON. 105 

races were to succeed the assizes, which had just 
commenced, he stopped at an inn, to refresh his, 
horse ; and, being hot with riding, and depressed 
by some recent losses at play, he drank very freely 
of the spirits which he had ordered. At this mo* 
ment he saw a schoolfellow of his in the bar, who, 

like himself, was on his way to Y . This 

young man was of a coarse, unfeeling nature ; and, 
having had a fortune left him, was full of the con- 
sequence of newly-acquired wealth. 

Therefore, when Edgar Vernon impulsively ap- 
proached him, and, putting his hand out, asked how 
he did, Dunham haughtily drew back, put his 
hands behind him, and, in the hearing of several 
persons, replied, " I do not know you, sir !" — 
" Not know me, Dunham ?" cried Edgar Vernon, 
turning very pale. " That is to say, I do not 
choose to know you." — " And why not ?" cried 
Edgar, seizing his arm, and with a look of menace. 
" Because .... because . . . . I do not choose 
to know a man who murdered his mother." 
" Murdered his mother !" cried the by-standers, 
holding up their hands, and regarding Edgar Ver- 
non with a look of horror. " Wretch !" cried he, 
seizing Dunham in his powerful grasp, " explain 
yourself this moment, or" . . . . — " Then take 
your fingers from my throat !" Edgar did so ; 
and Dunham said, " I meant only that you broke 
your mother's heart by your ill conduct ; and 
pray, was not that murdering her ?" While he 
was saying this, Edgar Vernon stood with folded 
arms, rolling his eyes wildly from one of the by- 
standers to the other ; and seeing, as he believed, 
disgust towards him in the countenances of them 
all. When Dunham had finished speaking, Edgar 
Vernon wrung his hands in agony, saying, " true* 



166 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

most true, I am a murderer ! I am a parricide \ v 
Then, suddenly drinking off a large glass of brandy 
near him, he quitted the room, and, mounting his 
horse, rode off at full speed. Aim and object in 
view, he had none ; he was only trying to ride from 
himself ; trying to escape from those looks of hor- 
ror and aversion which the remarks of Dunham 
had provoked. But what right had Dunham so to 
provoke him ? 

After he had put this question to himself, the 
image of Dunham, scornfully rejecting him his 
hand, alone took possession of his remembrance, 
till he thirsted for revenge ; and the irritation of the 
moment urged him to seek it immediately. 

The opportunity, as he rightly suspected, was 
in his power ; Dunham would soo»n be coming that 

way on his road to Y ; and he would meet 

him. He did so ; and, riding up to him, seized 
the bridle^ of his horse, exclaiming, " you have 
called me a murderer, Dunham ; and you were 
right ; for, though I loved my mother dearly, and 
would have died for her, I killed her by my wicked 
course of life !" — " Well, well ; I know that" re- 
plied Dunham, " so let me go ! for I tell you I do 
not like to be seen with such as you. Let me go, 
I say !" 

He did let him go ; but it was as the tyger lets 
go its prey, to spring on it again. A blow from 
Edgar's nervous arm knocked the rash insulter 
from his horse. In another minute Dunham lay on 
the road a bleeding corpse ; and the next morning 
officers were out in pursuit of the murderer. That 
wretched man was soon found, and soon secured. 
Indeed, he had not desired to avoid pursuit ; but, 
when the irritation of drunkenness and revenge had 
subsided, the agony of remorse took possession of 



THE FATHER AND SON. 167 

his soul ; and he confessed his crime with tears of 
the bitterest penitence. To be brief : Edgar Ver- 
non was carried into that city as a manacled crimi- 
nal, which he had expected to leave as a successful 
gambler ; and, before the end of the assizes, he 
was condemned to death. 

He made a full confession of his guilt before 
the judge pronounced condemnation ; gave a brief 
statement of the provocation which he received 
from the deceased ; blaming himself at the same 
time for his criminal revenge, in so heart-rending a 
manner, and lamenting so pathetically the disgrace 
and misery in which he had involved his father and 
family, that every heart was melted to compassion ; 
and the judge wept, while he passed on him the 
awful sentence of the law. 

His conduct in prison was so exemplary, that it 
proved he had not forgotten his father's precepts, 
though he had not acted upon them ; and his broth- 
ers, for whom he sent, found him in a state of mind 
which afforded them the only and best consolation. 
This contrite lowly christian state of mind accom- 
panied him to the awful end of his existence ; and 
it might be justly said of him, that " nothing in his 
life became him like the losing it." 

Painful, indeed, was the anxiety of Edgar and 
his brothers, lest their father should learn this hor- 
rible circumstance : but as the culprit was arraign- 
ed under a feigned name, and as the crime, trial, 
and execution, had taken, and would take up, so 
short a period of time, they flattered themselves 
that he would never learn how and where Edgar 
died ; but would implicitly believe what was told 
him. They therefore wrote him word that Edgar 
had been taken ill at an inn, near London, on his 
road home ; that he had sent for them ; and they 



168 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

had little hopos of his recovery. They followed 
this letter of benevolent lies as soon as they 
'Could, to inform him that all was over. 

This plan was wholly disapproved by a friend of 
the family, who, on principle, thought all conceal- 
ment wrong ; and, probably, useless too. 

When the brothers drove to his house, on their 
way home, he said to them, " I found your father 
in a state of deep submission to the divine will, 
though grieved at the loss of a child, whom not 
even his errors could drive from his affections. I 
also found him consoled by those expressions of 
filial love and reliance on the merits of his Redeem- 
er, which you transmitted to him from Edgar him- 
self. Now, as the poor youth died penitent, and 
as his crime was palliated by great provocation, I 
conceive that it would not add much to your fath- 
er's distress, were he to be informed of the truth. 
You know that, from a principle of obedience to the 
implied designs of Providence, I object to any con- 
cealment on such occasions, but on this, disclosure 
would certainly be a safer, as well as a more prop- 
er, mode of proceeding ; for, though he does not 
read newspapers, he may one day learn the fact as 
it is ; and then the consequence may be fatal to 
life or reason. Remember how ill concealment 
answered in your poor mother's case." But he 
argued in vain. However, he obtained leave to go 
with them to their father, that he might judge of 
the possibility of making the disclosure which he 
advised. 

They found the poor old man leaning his head 
upon an open Bible, as though he had been pray- 
ing over it. The sight of his sons in mourning told 
the tale which he dreaded to hear ; and, wringing 
their hands in silence, he left the room, but soon 



THE FATHER AND SON. 09 1 

returned ; and with surprising composure, said, 
" Well ; now I can bear to hear particulars." 
When they had told him all they chose to relate, 
he exclaimed, melting into tears, " Enough ! — 
Oh, my dear sons and dear friend, it is a sad and 
grievous thing for a father to own ; but I feel this 
sorrow to be a blessing ! I had always feared that 
he would die a violent death, either by his own 
hand, or that of the executioner ; (here the sons 
looked triumphantly at each other ;) therefore, his 
dying a penitent, and with humble christian reli- 
ance, is such a relief to my mind ! Yes ; I feared 
he might commit forgery, or even murder ; and 
that would have been dreadful !" — " Dreadful, in- 
deed !" faltered out both the brothers, bursting in- 
to tears ; while Osborne, choked, and almost con- 
vinced, turned to the window. " Yet," added he, 
" even in that case, if he had died penitent, I trust 
that I could have borne the blow, and been able to 
believe the soul of my unhappy boy would find 
mercy !" Here Osborne eagerly turned round, 
and would have ventured to tell the truth ; but was 
withheld by the frowns of his companions, and the 
truth was not told. 

Edgar had not been dead above seven months, 
before a visible change took place in his father's 
spirits, and expression of countenance ; — for the 
constant dread of his child's coming to a terrible 
end had hitherto preyed on his mind, and rendered 
his appearance haggard ; but now he looked, and 
vms cheerful ; therefore his sons rejoiced, when- 
ever they visited him, that they had not taken Os- 
borne's advice. " You are wrong," said he, " he 
would have been just as well, if he had known the 
manner of Edgar's death. It is not his ignorance^ 
15 



170 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

but the cessation of anxious suspense, that has thus 
renovated him. However, he may go in this igno- 
rance to his grave ; and I earnestly hope he will 
do so." — " Amen ;" said one of his sons ; " for 
his life is most precious to our children, as well as 
to us. Our little boys are improving so fast under 
his tuition !" 

The consciousness of recovering health, as a 
painful affection of the breath and heart, had greatly 
subsided since the death of Edgar, made the good 
old man wish to visit, during the summer months, 
an old college friend, who lived in Yorkshire ;and 
he communicated his intentions to his sons. But 
they highly disapproved them, because, though Ed- 
gar's dreadful death was not likely to be revealed 

to him in the little village of R , it might be 

disclosed to him by some one or other during a 
long journey. 

However, as he was bent on going, they could 
not find a sufficient excuse for preventing it ; but 
they took every precaution possible. They wrote 
to their father's intended host, desiring him to keep 
all papers and magazines for the last seven months 
out of his way ; and when the day of his departure 
arrived, Osborne himself went to take a place for 
hirn ; and took care it should be in that coach 
which did not stop at, or go through York, in order 
to obviate all possible chance of his hearing the 
murder discussed. But it so happened that a fami- 
ly, going from the town whence the coach, started, 
wanted the whole of it ; and, without leave, Ver- 
non's place was transferred to the other coach, 
which went the very road Osborne disapproved. 
" Well, well ; it is the same thing to me ;" said the 
good old man, when he was informed of the 
change ; and he set off, full of pious thankfulness 



THE FATHER AND SON. 171 

for the affectionate conduct and regrets of his pa- 
rishioners at the moment of his departure, as they 
lined the road along which the coach was to pass, 
and expressed even clamorously their wishes for 
his return. 

The coach stopped at an inn out-side the city of 
York 5 and as Vernon was not disposed to eat any 
dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to 
a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered the 
church-yard to read, as was his custom, the inscrip- 
tions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, he 
saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and en- 
tered into conversation with him. He found it was 
the sexton himself; and he drew from him several 
anecdotes of the persons interred around them. 

During this conversation they had walked over 
the whole of the ground, when, just as they were 
going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck 
some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, and 
Vernon stopped also ; taking hold, as he did so, of 
a small willow sapling, planted near the corner 
itself. 

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw 
where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and 
said, " I planted that willow ; and it is on a grave, 
though the grave is not marked out." — " Indeed !" 
— " Yes ; it is the grave of a murderer." — " Of a 
murderer !" — echoed Vernon, instinctively shud- 
dering and moving away from it. — " Yes," resum- 
ed he, " of a murderer who was hanged at York. 
Poor lad ! it was very right that he should be hang- 
ed ; but he was not a hardened villain ! and he died so 
penitent ! and, as I knew him when he used to visit 
where I was groom, I could not help planting this 
tree, for old acquaintance' sake." Here he drew 
his hand across his eyes. " Then he was not a 



172 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

low-born, man." — " Oh no ; his father was a cler- 
gyman, I think." — " Indeed ! poor man : was he 
living at the time ?" said Vernon, deeply sighing. 
" Oh yes ; for his poor son did so fret, lest his 
father should ever know what he had done ; for he 
said he was an angel upon earth ; and he could not 
bear to think how he would grieve ; for, poor lad, 
he loved his father and his mother too, though he 
did so badly."—" Is his mother living ?" — " No : 
if she had, he would have been alive ; but his evil 
courses broke her heart ; and it was because the 
man he killed reproached him for having murdered 
his mother, that he was provoked to murder him." 
— " Poor, rash, mistaken youth ! then he had pro- 
vocation." — " Oh yes ; the greatest : but he was 
very sorry for what he had done ; and it would 
have broken your heart to hear him talk of his poor 
father." — " I am giad I did not hear him," said 
Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice (for he 
thought of Edgar.) " And yet, sir, it would have 
done your heart good too." — " Then he had virtu- 
ous feelings, and loved his father amidst all his er- 
rors ;" — " Aye " — " And I dare say his father lov- 
ed him, in spite of his faults." — " I dare say he 
did," replied the man ; "for one's children are our 
own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is 
said and done ; and may be this young fellow was 
spoiled in the bringing up." — " Perhaps so," said 
Vernon, sighing deeply. " However, this poor lad 
made a very good end." — " I am glad of that ! and 
he lies here," continued Vernon, gazing on the 
spot with deepening interest, and moving nearer to 
it as he spoke. " Peace be to his soul ! but was 
he not dissected ?" — " Yes ; but his brothers got 
leave to have the body after dissection. They 
came to me ; and we buried it privately at night," 



THE FATHER AND SON. 173 

— " His brothers came ! and who were his broth- 
ers ?" — " Merchants, in London ; and it was a sad 
cut on them ; but they took care that their father 
should not know it." — " No !" cried Vernon, turn- 
ing sick at heart. " Oh no ; they wrote him word 
that his son was ill ; then went to Westmoreland, 
and .... ." — "Tell me," interrupted Vernon, 
gasping for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, 
" tell me the name of this poor youth !" — " Why, 
he was tried under a false name, for the sake of his 
family ; but his real name was Edgar Vernon !" 

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered vio- 
lently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven 
at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal 
and resignation. He then rushed to the obscure 
spot which covered the bones of his son, threw 
himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as 
if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while 
his head rested on the grass, and he neither spoke 
nor moved. But he uttered one groan : then all 
was stillness ! 

His terrified and astonished companion remained 
motionless for a few moments, — then stooped to 
raise him ; but the fiat of mercy had gone forth, 
and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, 
had suffered, and breathed its last. 

15* 



174 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

CHAPTER XI. 

LIES OF WANTONNESS. 

I come now to lies of wantonness ; that is, 
lies tokl from no other motive but a love of lying, 
and to show the utterer's total contempt of truth, 
and for those scrupulous persons of their acquain- 
tance who look on it with reverence, and endeavour 
to act up to their principles : lies, having their ori- 
gin merely in a depraved fondness for speaking and 
inventing falsehood. Not that persons of this de- 
scription confine their falsehoods to this sort of lying : 
on the contrary, they lie after this fashion, because 
they have exhausted the strongly -motived and more 
natural sorts of lying. In such as these, there is 
no more hope of amendment than there is for the 
man of intemperate habits, who has exhausted life 
of its pleasures, and his constitution of its energy. 
Such persons must go despised and (terrible state 
of human degradation !) untrusted, unbelieved, in- 
to their graves. 

Practical lies come last on my list ; lies not 
uttered, but acted ; and dress will furnish me 
with most of my illustrations. 

It has been said that the great art of dress is to 
conceal defects and heighten bi auties ; 
therefore, as concealment is deception, this great 
art of dress is founded on falsehood : but, certain- 
ly, in some instances, on falsehood, comparatively, 
of an innocent kind. 

If the false hair be so worn, that no one can fan- 
cy it natural ; if the bloom on the cheek is such, 
that it cannot be mistaken for nature ; or, if the 



PRACTICAL LIES. 175 

person who " conceals defects, and heightens 
beauties," openly avows the practice, then is the 
deception annihilated. But, if the cheek be so art- 
fully tinted, that its hue is mistaken for natural col- 
our ; if the false hair be so skilfully woven, that it 
passes for natural hair ; if the crooked person, or 
meagre form, be so cunningly assisted by dress, 
that the uneven shoulder disappears, and becoming 
fulness succeeds to unbecoming thinness, while the 
man or woman thus assisted by art expects their 
charms will be imputed to nature alone ; then these 
aids of dress partake of the nature of other lying, 
and become equally vicious in the eyes of the re- 
ligious and the moral. 

I have said, the man or woman so assisted by art ; 
and I believe that, by including jhe stronger sex in 
the above observation, I have only been strictly just. 
While men hide baldness by gluing a piece of 
false hair on their heads, meaning that it should pass 
for their own, and while a false calf gives muscular 
beauty to a shapeless leg, can the observer on hu- 
man life do otherwise than include the wiser sex in 
the list of those who indulge in the permitted arti- 
fices and mysteries of the toilet ? Nay ; bolder 
still are the advances of some men into its sacred 
mysteries. I have seen the eyebrows, even of the 
young, darkened by the hand of art, and their 
cheeks reddened by its touch ; and who has not 
seen, in Bond Street, or the Drive, during the last 
twenty or thirty years, certain notorious men of 
fashion glowing in immortal bloom, and rivalling the 
dashing belle beside them ? 

As the foregoing observations on the practical 
lies of dress, have been mistaken by many, 
and have exposed me to severe, (and I think 
I may add) unjust animadversions, 1 take the op- 



176 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

portunity afforded me by a second edition, to say a 
few words in explanation of them. 

I do not wish to censure any one for having re- 
course to art to hide the defects of nature ; and, I 
have expressly said, that such practices are com- 
paratively innocent : but, it seems to me, that they 
cease to be innocent, and become passive and prac- 
tical lies also, if, when men and women hear the 
fineness of their complexion, hair, or teeth, com- 
mended in their presence, they do not own that the 
beauty so commended is entirely artificial, provided 
such be really the case. But, 

I am far from advising any one to be guilty of the 
unnecessary egotism, of volunteering such an assu- 
rance ; all I contend for is, that when we are prais- 
ed for qualities, whether of mind or person, which 
we do not possess, we are guilty of passive, if not 
of practical, lying, if we do not disclaim our right 
to the encomium bestowed. 

The following also are practical lies of every 
day's experience. 

Wearing paste for diamonds, intending that the 
false should be taken for the true ; and purchasing 
brooches, pins, and rings of mock jewels, intending 
that they should pass for real ones. Passing off 
gooseberry-wine at dinner for real Champaigne, 
and English liqueurs for foreign ones. But, on 
these occasions, the motive is not always the mean 
and contemptible wish of imposing on the credulity 
of others ; but it has sometimes its source in a dan- 
gerous as well as deceptive ambition, that of mak- 
ing an appearance beyond what the circumstances 
of the persons so deceiving really warrant ; the 
wish to be supposed to be more opulent than they re- 
ally are ; that most common of all the practical lies ; 
as ruin and bankruptcy follow in its train. The 



PRACTICAL LIES. 177 

lady who purchases and wears paste, which she 
hopes will pass for diamonds, is usually one who 
has no right to wear jewels at all ; and the gentle- 
man who passes off gooseberry-wine for Cham- 
paigne is, in all probability, aiming at a style of liv- 
ing beyond his situation in society. 

On some occasions, however, when ladies sub- 
stitute paste for diamonds, the substitution tells a 
tale of greater error still. I mean, when ladies 
wear mock for real jewels, because their extrava- 
gance has obliged them to raise money on the lat- 
ter ; and they are therefore constrained to keep up 
the appearance of their necessary and accustomed 
splendour, by a practical lie. 

The following is another of the practical lies 
in common use. 

The medical man, who desires his servant to call 
him out of church, or from a party, in order to give 
him the appearance of the great business which he 
has not, is guilty not of uttering but of acting a 
falsehood ; and the author also, who makes his 
publisher put second and third editions before a 
work of which, perhaps, not even the first edition 
is sold. 

But, the most fatal to the interests of others, 
though perhaps the most pitiable of practical lies, 
are those acted by men who, though they know 
themselves to be in the gulf of bankruptcy, either 
from wishing to put off the evil day, or from the vis- 
ionary hope that something will occur unexpectedly 
to save them, launch out into increased splendour 
of living, in order to obtain further credit, and in- 
duce their acquaintances to intrust their money to 
them. 

There is, however, one practical lie more fa- 
tal still, in my opinion ; because it is the practice 



178 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

of schools, and consequently the sin of early life ; 
— a period of existence in which it is desirable, 
both for general and individual good, that habits of 
truth and integrity should be acquired, and strictly 
adhered to. I mean the pernicious custom which 
prevails amongst boys, and probably girls, of get- 
ting their schoolfellows to do their exercises for 
them, or consenting to do the same office for 
others. 

Some will say, " but it would be so ill-natured to 
refuse to write one's schoolfellows' exercises, es- 
pecially when one is convinced that they cannot 
write them for themselves." But, leaving the 
question of truth and falsehood unargued a while, 
let us examine coolly that of the probable good or 
evil done to the parties obliged. 

What are children sent to school for ? — to learn. 
And when there, what are the motives which are 
to make them learn ? dread of punishment, and 
hope of distinction and reward. There are few 
children so stupid, as not to be led on to industry 
oy one or both of these motives, however indolent 
they may be ; but, if these motives be not allowed 
their proper scope of action, the stupid boy will nev- 
er take the trouble to learn, if he finds that he can 
avoid punishment, and gain reward, by prevailing 
on some more diligent boy to do his exercises for 
him. Those, therefore, who thus indulge their 
schoolfellows, do it at the expense of their future 
welfare, and are in reality foes where they fancied 
themselves friends. But, generally speaking, they 
have not even this excuse for their pernicious com- 
pliance, since it springs from want of sufficient firm- 
ness to say no, — and deny an earnest request at the 
command of principle. But, to such I would put 
this question. " Which is the real friend to a child. 



PRACTICAL LIES. 179 

the person who gives it the sweetmeats which it 
asks for, at the risk of making it ill, merely because 
it were so hard to refuse the dear little thing ; or 
the person who, considering only the interest and 
health of the child, resists its importunities, though 
grieved to deny its request ? No doubt that they 
would give the palm of real kindness, real good- 
nature to the latter ; and in like manner, the boy 
who refuses to do his schoolfellow's task is more 
truly kind, more truly good-natured, to him than he 
who, by indulging his indolence, runs the risk of 
making him a dunce for life. 

But some may reply, " It would make one 
odious in the school, were one to refuse this com- 
mon compliance with the wants and wishes of one's 
companions." — Not if the refusal were declared to 
be the result of principle, and every aid not con- 
trary to it were offered and afforded ; and there 
are many ways in which schoolfellows may assist 
each other, without any violation of truth, and with- 
out sharing with them in the practical lie, by 
imposing on their masters, as theirs, lessons which 
they never wrote. 

This common practice in schools is a practical 
lie of considerable importance, from its frequen- 
cy ; and because, as I before observed, the ressult 
of it is, that the first step which a child sets in a 
school is into the midst of deceit — tolerated, cher- 
ished, deceit. For, if children are quick at learn- 
ing, they are called upon immediately to enable 
others to deceive ; and, if dull, they are enabled to 
appear in borrowed plumes themselves. 

How often have I heard men in mature life say, 
" Oh ! I knew such a one at school ; he was a 
very good fellow, but so dull ! I have often done 
his exercises for him." Or, I have heard the con- 



180 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

trary asserted. " Such a one was a very clever 
boy at school indeed ; he has done many an exer- 
cise for me ; for he was very good-natured" And 
in neither case was the speaker conscious that he 
had been guilty of the meanness of deception him- 
self, or been accessary to it in another. 

Parents also correct their children's exercises, 
and thereby enable them to put a deceit on the 
master ; not only by this means convincing their 
offspring of their own total disregard of truth ; a 
conviction doubtless most pernicious in its effects 
on their young minds ; but as full of folly as it is of 
laxity of principle ; since the deceit cannot fail of 
being detected, whenever the parents are not at 
hand to afford their assistance. 

But, is it necessary that this school delinquency 
should exist ! Is it not advisable that children 
should learn the rudiments of truth, rather than 
falsehood, with those of their mother tongue and the 
classics f Surely masters and mistresses should 
watch over the morals, while improving the minds 
of youth. Surely parents ought to be tremblingly 
solicitous that their children should always speak 
truth, and be corrected by their preceptors for ut- 
tering falsehood. Yet, of what use could it be to 
correct a child for telling a spontaneous lie, on the 
impulse of strong temptation, if that child be in the 
daily habit of deceiving his master on system, and 
of assisting others to do so ? While the present 
practice with regard to exercise-making exists ; 
while boys and girls go up to their preceptors with 
lies in their hands, whence, sometimes, no doubt, 
they are transferred to their lips ; every hope that 
truth will be taught in schools, as a necessary moral 
duty, must be totally, and for ever, annihilated. 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 181 



CHAPTER XII. 

OUR OWN EXPERIENCE OF THE PAINFUL RESULTS 
OF LYING. 

I cannot point out the mischievous nature and 
impolicy of lying better than by referring my read- 
ers to their own experience. Which of them does 
not know some few persons, at least, from whose 
habitual disregard of truth they have often suffer- 
ed ; and with whom they find intimacy unpleasant, 
as well as unsafe ; because confidence, that charm 
and cement of intimacy, is wholly wanting in the 
intercourse ? Which of my readers is not some- 
times obliged to say, " I ought to add, that my au- 
thority for what I have just related, is only Mr. and 
Mrs. such-a-one, or a certain young lady, or a cer- 
tain young gentleman ; therefore, you know what 
credit is to be given to it." 

It has been asserted, that every town and village 
has its idiot ; and, with equal truth, probably, it 
may be advanced, that every one's circle of ac- 
quaintances contains one or more persons known to 
be habitual liars, and always mentioned as such. I 
may be asked, " if this be so, of what consequence 
is it ? And how is it mischievous ? If such per- 
sons are known and chronicled as liars, they can 
deceive no one, and, therefore, can do no harm." 
But this is not true : we are not always on our 
guard, either against our own weakness, or against 
that of others ; and if the most notorious liar tells 
us something which we wish to believe, our wise 
16 



182 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

resolution never to credit or repeat what he has 
told us, fades before our desire to confide in him 
on this occasion. Thus, even in spite of caution, 
we become the agents of his falsehood ; and, though 
lovers of truth, are the assistants of lying. 

Nor are there many of my readers, I venture to 
pronounce, who have not at some time or other of 
their lives, had cause to lament some violation of 
truth, of which they themselves were guilty, and 
which, at the time, they considered as wise, or pos- 
itively unavoidable. 

But the greatest proof of the impolicy even of 
occasional lying is, that it exposes one to the dan- 
ger of never being believed in future. It is difficult 
to give implicit credence to those who have once 
deceived us ; when they did so deceive, they were 
governed by a motive sufficiently powerful to over- 
come their regard for truth ; and how can one 
ever be sure, that equal temptation is not always 
present, and always overcoming them ? 

Admitting, that perpetual distrust attends on 
those who are known to be frequent violaters of 
truth, it seems to me that the liar is, as if he was 
not. He is, as it were, annihilated for all the im- 
portant purposes of life. That man or woman is 
no better than a nonentity, whose simple assertion 
is not credited immediately. Those whose words 
no one dares to repeat, without naming the authori- 
ty, lest the information conveyed by them should 
be too implicitly credited, such persons, I repeat it, 
exist, as if they existed not. They resemble that 
diseased eye, which, though perfect in colour, and 
appearance, is wholly useless, because it cannot 
perform the function for which it was created, that 
of seeing ; for, of what use to others, and of what 
benefit to themselves, can those be whose tongues 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 183 

are always suspected of uttering falsehood, and 
whose words, instead of inspiring confidence, that 
soul and cement of society, and of mutual regard, 
are received with offensive distrust, and never re- 
peated without caution and apology ? 

I shall now endeavour to show, that speaking the 
truth does not imply a necessity to wound the feel- 
ings of any one ; but that, even if the unrestricted 
practice of truth in society did at first give pain to 
self-love, it would, in the end, further the best views 
of benevolence ; namely, moral improvement. 

There cannot be any reason why offensive or 
home truths should be volunteered, because one lays 
it down as a principle that truth must be spoken, 
when called for. If I put a question to another 
which may, if truly answered, wound either my sen- 
sibility or my self-love, I should be rightly served, 
if replied to by a home truth ; but, taking conversa- 
tion according to its general tenor — that is, under 
the usual restraints of decorum and propriety — truth 
and benevolence will, I believe, be found to go 
hand in hand ; and not, as is commonly imagined, 
be opposed to each other. For instance, if a per- 
son in company be old, plain, affected, vulgar in 
manners, or dressed in a manner unbecoming their 
years, my utmost love of truth would never lead 
me to say, " how old you look ! or how plain you 
are ! or how improperly dressed ! or how vulgar ! 
and how affected !" But, if this person were to 
say to me, " do I not look old ? am I not plain ? 
am I not improperly dressed . ? am I vulgar in man- 
ners ?" and so on, I own that, according to my 
principles, I must, in my reply, adhere to the strict 
truth, after having vainly tried to avoid answering, 
by a serious expostulation on the folly, impropriety, 
and indelicacy of putting such a question to any 



184 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

one. And what would the consequence be ? The 
person so answered, would, probably, never like me 
again. Still, by my reply, I might have been of 
the greatest service to the indiscreet questioner. 
If ugly, the inquirer being convinced that not on 
outward charms could he or she build their preten- 
sions to please, might study to improve in the more 
permanent graces of mind and manner. If growing 
old, the inquirer might be led by my reply to re- 
flect seriously on the brevity of life, and try to grow 
in grace while advancing in years. If ill-dressed, 
or in a manner unbecoming a certain time of life, 
the inquirer might be led to improve in this partic- 
ular, and be no longer exposed to the sneer of de- 
traction. If vulgar, the inquirer might be induced 
to keep a watch in future over the admitted vulgar- 
ity 5 and, if affected, might endeavour at greater 
simplicity, and less pretension in appearance. 

Thus, the temporary wound to the self-love of the 
enquirer might be attended with lasting benefit ; 
and benevolence in reality be not wounded, but 
gratified. Besides, as I have before observed, the 
truly benevolent can always find a balm for the 
wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 

Few persons are so entirely devoid of external 
and internal charms, as not to be subjects for some 
kind of commendation ; therefore, I believe, that 
means may always be found to smooth down the 
plumes of that self-love which principle has obliged 
us to ruffle. But, if it were to become a general 
principle of action in society to utter spontaneous 
truth, the difficult situation in which I have painted 
the utterers of truth to be placed, would, in time, 
be impossible ; for, if certain that the truth would 
be spoken, and their suspicions concerning their de- 
fects confirmed, none would dare to put such ques- 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 185 

tions as I have enumerated. Those questions 
sprung from the hope of being contradicted and 
flattered, and were that hope annihilated, no ono 
would ever so question again. 

I shall observe here, that those who make morti- 
fying observations on the personal defects of their 
friends, or on any infirmity either of body or mind, 
are not actuated by the love of truth, or by any good 
motive whatever ; but that such unpleasant sinceri- 
ty is merely the result of coarseness of mind, and 
a mean desire to inflict pain and mortification ; 
therefore, if the utterer of them be noble, or even 
royal, I should still bring a charge against them, 
terrible to " ears polite," that of ill-breeding and 
positive vulgarity. 

All human beings are convinced in the closet of 
the importance of truth to the interests of society, 
and of the mischief which they experience from 
lying, though few, comparatively, think the prac- 
tice of the one, and avoidance of the other, binding 
either on the christian or the moralist, when they 
are acting in the busy scenes of the world. Nor, 
can I wonder at this inconsistency, when boys and 
girls, as I have before remarked, however they 
may be taught to speak the truth at home, are so 
often tempted into the tolerated commission of false- 
hood as soon as they set their foot into a public 
school. 

But we must wonder still less at the little shame 
which attaches to what is called white lying, 
when we see it sanctioned in the highest assemblies 
in this kingdom. 

It is with fear and humility that I venture to 
blame a custom prevalent in our legislative meet- 
ings 5 which, as Christianity is declared to be " part 
16* 



loD ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and parcel of the law of the land," ought to be 
christian as well as wise ; and where every mem- 
ber, feeling it binding on him individually to act 
according to the legal oath, should speak the truth, 
and nothing but the truth. Yet, what is the real 
state of things there on some occasions , ? 

In the heat, (the pardonable heat, perhaps,) 
of political debates, and from the excitement pro- 
duced by collision of wits, a noble lord, or an hon- 
ourable commoner, is betrayed into severe personal 
comment on his antagonist. The unavoidable con- 
sequence, as it is thought, is apology, or duel. 

But as these assemblies are called christian, even 
the warriors present deem apology a more proper 
proceeding than duel. Yet, how is apology to be 
made consistent with the dignity and dictates of 
worldly honour ? And how cant he necessity of 
duel, that savage heathenish disgrace to a civilized 
and christian land, be at once obviated ? Oh 1 the 
method is easy enough. " It is as easy as lying," 
and lying is the remedy. A noble lord, or an hon- 
ourable member gets up, and says, than undoubted- 
ly his noble or honourable friend used such and 
such words ; but, no doubt, that by those words 
he did not mean what those words usually mean ; 
but he meant so and so. Some one on the other 
side immediately rises on behalf of the offended, 
and says, that if the offender will say that by so and 
so, he did not mean so and so, the offended will be 
perfectly satisfied. On which the offender rises, 
declares that by black he did not mean black, but 
white ; in short, that black is white, and white 
black ; the offended says, enough ; — I am satisfied ! 
the honourable house is satisfied also thai life is 
put out of peril, and what is called honour is satis- 
fied by the sacrifice only of truth. 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 187 

I must beg leave to state, that no one can rejoice 
more fervently than myself when these disputes ter- 
minate without duels ; but must there be a victim ? 
and must that victim be truth ? As there is no in- 
tention to deceive on these occasions, nor wish, nor 
expectation to do so, the sou], the essence of lying, 
is not in the transaction on the side of the offender. 
But the offended is forced to say that he is satisfied, 
when he certainly can not be so. He knows that 
the offender meant, at the moment, what he said ; 
therefore, he is not satisfied when he is told, in or- 
der to return his half-drawn sword to the scabbard, 
or his pistol to the holster, that black means white, 
and white means black. 

However, he has his resource ; he may ultimate- 
ly tell the truth, declare himself, when out of the 
house, unsatisfied ; and may (horrible alternative !) 
peril his life, or that of his opponent. But is there 
no other course which can be pursued by him who 
gave the offence ? Must apology to satisfy be 
made in the language of falsehood ? Could it not 
be made in the touching and impressive language 
of truth ? Might not the perhaps already penitent 
offender say "no; I will not be guilty of the 
meanness of subterfuge. By the words which I 
uttered, I meant at the moment what those words 
conveyed, and nothing else. But I then saw- 
through the medium of passion ; I spoke in the 
heat of resentment ; and I now scruple not to say- 
that 1 am sorry for what I said, and entreat the 
pardon of him whom I offended. If he be not sat- 
isfied, I know the consequences, and must take the 
responsibility." 

Surely an apology like this would satisfy any 
one, however offended ; and if the adversary were 
not contented, the noble or honourable house would 



188 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

undoubtedly deem his resentment brutal, and he 
would be constrained to pardon the offender in or- 
der to avoid disgrace. 

But I am not contented with the conclusion of 
the apology which 1 have put into the mouth of the 
offending party ; for I have made him willing, if 
necessary, to comply with the requirings of worldly 
honour. Instead of ending his apology in that un- 
holy manner, I should have wished to end it thus : 
— " But if this heart-felt apology be not sufficient 
to appease the anger of him whom I have offended, 
and he expects me, in order to expiate my fault, 
to meet him in the lawless warfare of single com- 
bat, I solemnly declare that 1 will not so meet him ; 
that not even the dread of being accused of cow- 
ardice, and being frowned on by those whose re* 
spect I value, shall induce me to put in peril either 
his life or my own." 

If he and his opponent he married men, and, 
above all, if be be indeed a christian, he might add, 
w I will not, for any personal considerations, run 
the risk of making his wife and mine a widow, and 
his children and my own fatherless. I will not run 
the risk of disappointing that confiding tenderness 
which looks up to us for happiness and protection, 
by any rash and selfish action of mine. But, I am 
not actuated to this refusal by this consideration 
alone ; I am withheld by one more binding and 
more powerful still. For I remember the precepts 
taught in the Bible, and confirmed in the New Tes- 
tament ; and I cannot, will not, dare not, enter in- 
to single and deadly combat, in opposition to that 
awful command, " thou shalt not kill ! }) 

Would any one, however narrow and worldly in 
his conceptions, venture to condemn as a coward, 
meanly shrinking from the responsibility he had in- 



THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 189 

curred, the man that could dare to put forth senti- 
ments like these, regardless of that fearful thing, 
" the world's dread laugh ?*' 

There might be some among his hearers by whom 
this truly noble daring could not possibly be appre- 
ciated. But, though in both houses of parliament, 
there might be heroes present, whose heads are 
even bowed down by the weight of their laurels ; 
men whose courage has often paled the cheek of 
their enemies in battle, and brought the loftiest low ; 
still, (I must venture to assert) he who can dare, for 
the sake of conscience, to speak and act counter to 
the prejudices and passions of the world, at the risk 
of losing his standing in society, such a man is a 
hero in the best sense of the word ; his is courage 
of the most difficult kind ; that moral courage, 
founded indeed on fear, but a fear that tramples 
firmly on every fear of man ; for it is that holy 
fear, the fear of god. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

LYING THE* MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 

I have observed in the preceding chapter, and 
elsewhere, that all persons, in theory, consider ly- 
ing as a most odious, mean, and pernicious prac- 
tice. It is also one which is more than almost any 
other reproved, if not punished, both in servants 
and children ; — for parents, those excepted, whose 
moral sense has been rendered utterly callous, or 
who never possessed any, mourn over the slightest 



190 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

deviation from truth in their offspring, and visit it 
with instant punishment. Who has not frequently- 
heard masters and mistresses of families declaring 
that some of their servants were such liars that they 
could keep them no longer ? Yet, trying and pain- 
ful as intercourse with liars is universally allowed 
to be, since confidence, that necessary guardian of 
domestic peace, cannot exist where they are ; lying 
is undoubtedly, the most common of all vices. 
A friend of mine was once told by a confessor, that 
it was the one most frequently confessed to him ; 
and I am sure that if we enter society with eyes 
open to detect this propensity, we shall soon be 
convinced, that there are kw, if any, of our ac- 
quaintance, however distinguished for virtue who 
are not, on some occasions, led by good and suffi- 
cient motives, in their own opinion at least, either 
to violate or withhold the truth with intent to de- 
ceive. Nor do their most conscious or even de- 
tected deviations from veracity fill the generality of 
the world with shame or compunction. If they 
commit any other sins, they shrink from avowing 
them : but I have often heard persons confess, that 
they had, on certain occasions, uttered a direct 
falsehood, with an air which proved them to be 
proud of the deceptive skill with which it was ut- 
tered, adding, " but it was only a white lie, you 
know," with a degree of self-complacency which 
showed that, in their eyes, a white lie was no lie at 
all. And what is more common than to hear even 
the professedly pious, as well as the moral, assert 
that a deviation from truth, or, at least, withholding 
the truth, so as to deceive, is sometimes absolutely 
necessary ? Yet, I would seriously ask of those 
who thus argue, whether,when they repeat the com- 



THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 191 

mandment " thou shalt not steal," they feel will- 
ing to admit, either in themselves or others, a men- 
tal reservation, allowing them to pilfer in any de- 
gree, or even in the slightest particular, make free 
with the property of another ? Would they think 
that pilfering tea or sugar was a venial fault in a ser- 
vant, and excusable under strong temptations ? 
They would answer " no ;" and be ready to say in 
the words of the apostle, " whosoever in this re- 
spect shall offend in one point, he is guilty of all." 
Yet, I venture to assert that little lying, alias w 7 hite 
lying, is as much an infringement of the moral law 
against " speaking leasing," as little pilfering is of 
the commandment not to steal ; and 1 defy any 
consistent moralist to escape from the obligation of 
the principle which I here lay down. 

The economical rule, " take care of the pence, 
and the pounds will take care of themselves," may, 
with great benefit, be applied to morals. Few per- 
sons, comparatively, are exposed to the danger of 
committing great crimes, but all are daily and hour- 
ly tempted to commit little sins. Beware, there- 
fore, of slight deviations from purity and rectitude, 
and great ones will take care of themselves ; and 
the habit of resistance to trivial sins will make you 
able to resist temptation to errors of a more culpa- 
ble nature ; and as those persons will not be likely 
to exceed improperly in pounds, w T ho are laudably 
saving in pence, and as little lies are to great ones, 
what pence are to pounds, if we acquire a habit of 
telling truth on trivial occasions, we shall never be 
induced to violate it on serious and important ones. 

I shall now borrow the aid of others to strengthen 
what I have already said on this important subject, 
or have still to say ; as I am painfully conscious of 



192 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

my own inability to do justice to it ; and if the good 
which I desire be but effected, I am willing to re- 
sign to others the merit of the success. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

EXTRACTS FROM LORD BACON, AND OTHERS. 

In a gallery of moral philosophers, the rank of 
Bacon, in my opinion, resembles that of Titian in a 
gallery of pictures ; and some of his successors not 
only look up to him as authority for certain excel- 
lences, but, making him, in a measure, their study ; 
they endeavour to diffuse over their own produc- 
tions the beauty of his conceptions, and the depth 
and breadth of his manner. I am, therefore, sorry 
that those passages in his Essay on Truth which 
bear upon the subject before me, are so unsatisfac- 
torily brief; — however, as even a sketch from the 
hand of a master is valuable, I give the following 
extracts from the essay in question. 

" But to pass from theological and philosophical 
truth — to truth, or rather veracity, in civil business, 
it will be acknowledged, even by those that practise 
it not, that clear and sound dealing is the honour of 
man's nature, and that mixture of falsehood is like 
alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may make 
the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For 
these winding and crooked courses are the goings 
of the serpent, which goeth basely upon the belly, 
and not upon the feet. There is no vice that does 
so overwhelm a man with shame, as to be found 



EXTRACTS. 193 

false or perfidious : and therefore Montaigne saith 
very acutely, when he inquired the reason, why the 
giving the lie should be such a disgraceful aud odi- 
ous charge, " If it be well weighed," said he, " to 
say that a man lies, is as much as to say, he is a 
bravado towards God, and a coward towards man. 
For the liar insults God, and crouches to man." 
Essay on Truth. 

I hoped to have derived considerable assistance 
from Addison ; as he ranks so very high in the list 
of moral writers, that Dr. Watts said of his greatest 
work, " there is so much virtue in the eight vol- 
umes of the Spectator, such a reverence of things 
sacred, so many valuable remarks for our conduct 
in life, that they are not improper to lie in parlours, 
or summer-houses, to entertain one's thoughts in 
any moments of leisure." But, in spite of his fame 
as a moralist, and of this high eulogium from one of 
the best authorities, Addison appears to have done 
very little as an advocate for spontaneous truth, and 
an assailant of spontaneous lying ; and has been 
much less zealous and effective than either Hawkes- 
worth or Johnson. However, what he has said, is 
well said ; and I have pleasure in giving it. 

" The great violation of the point of honour from 
man to man is, giving the lie. One may tell anoth- 
er that he drinks and blasphemes, and it may pass 
uncoticed ; but to say he lies, though but in jest, is 
an affront that nothing but blood can expiate. The 
reason perhaps may be, because no other vice im- 
plies a want of courage so much as the making of a 
lie ; and, therefore, telling a man he lies, is touch- 
ing him in the most sensible part of honour, and, 
indirectly, calling him a coward. I cannot omit, 
under this head, what Herodotus tells us of the an- 
17 



194 ILLUSTRATIONS, OF LYING. 

cient Persians ; that, from the age of five years to 
twenty, they instruct their sons only in three things ; 
— to manage the horse, to make use of the bow, 
and to speak the truth." — Spectator, Letter 99. 

I know not whence Addison took the extract, 
from which I give the following quotation, but I re- 
fer my readers to No. 352 of the Spectator. 

" Truth is always consistent with itself, and 
needs nothing to help it out : it is always near at 
hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop 
out, before we are aware : whereas a lie is trouble- 
some, and sets a man's invention upon the rack ; and 
one break wants a great many more to make it 
good. It is like building on a false foundation, 
which continually stands in need of props to keep 
it up, and proves at last more chargeable than to 
have raised a substantial building at first upon a true 
and solid foundation : for sincerity is firm and sub- 
stantial, and there is nothing hollow and unsound in 
it ; and, because it is plain and open, fears no dis- 
covery, of which the crafty man is always in dan- 
ger. All his pretences are so transparent, that he 
that runs may read them ; he is the last man that 
finds himself tt> be found out ; and while he takes 
it for granted that he makes fools of others, he ren- 
ders himself ridiculous. Add to all this, that sin- 
cerity is the most compendious wisdom, and an ex- 
cellent instrument for the the speedy despatch of 
business. It creates confidence in those we have 
to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, 
and brings things to an issue in a few words. It is 
like travelling in a plain beaten road, which com- 
monly brings a man sooner to his journey than by- 
ways, in which men often lose themselves. In a 
word, whatsoever convenience may be thought to 
be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over ; 



EXTRACTS. 195 

but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it 
brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and sus- 
picion, so that he is not believed when he speaks 
truth, nor trusted, perhaps, when he means honest- 
ly. When a man has once forfeited the reputation 
of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing will serve 
his turn ; neither truth nor falsehood." 

Dr. Hawkesworth, in the " Adventurer," makes 
lying the subject of a whole number ; and begins 
thus : — "When Aristotle was once asked what a 
man could gain by uttering falsehoods," he replied, 
" not to be credited when he shall speak the truth." 
" The character of a liar is at once so hateful and 
contemptible, that even of those who have lost their 
virtue it might be expected that, from the violation 
of truth, they should be restrained by their pride ;" 
and again, " almost every other vice that disgraces 
human nature may be kept in countenance by ap- 
plause and association The liar, and 

only the liar, is invariably and universally despised, 
abandoned, and disowned. It is natural to expect 
that a crime thus generally detested should be gen- 
erally avoided, he. Yet, so it is, that, in defiance 
of censure and contempt, truth is frequently vio- 
lated ; and scarcely the most vigilant and unremit- 
ted circumspection will secure him that mixes with 
mankind from being hourly deceived by men of 
whom it can scarcely be imagined that they mean 
any injury to him, or profit to themselves." He 
then enters into a copious discussion of the lie of 
vanity, which he calls the most common of lies, and 
not the least mischievous ; but I shall content my- 
self with only one extract from the conclusion of 
this paper. " There is, I think, an ancient law in 
Scotland, by which leasing making was capitally 
punished. I am, indeed, far from desiring to in. 



196 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

crease in this country the number of executions ; 
yet, I cannot but think that they who destroy the 
confidence of society, weaken the credit of intelli- 
gence, and interrupt the security of life, might very 
properly be awakened to a sense of their crimes by 
denunciations of a whipping-post or pillory ; since 
many are so insensible of right and wrong, that 
they have no standard of action but the law, nor 
feel guilt but as they dread punishment." 

In No. 54 of the same work, Dr. Hawkesworth 
says, " that these men, who consider the imputa- 
tion of some vices as a compliment, would resent 
that of a lie as an insult, for which life only could 
atone. Lying, however," he adds, " does not in- 
cur more infamy than it deserves, though other 
vices incur less. But," continues he, " there is 
equal turpitude, and yet greater meanness, in those 
forms of speech which deceive without direct false- 
hood. The crime is committed with greater de- 
liberation, as it requires more contrivance ; and by 
the offenders the use of language is totally pervert- 
ed. They conceal a meaning opposite to that 
which they express : their speech is a kind of riddle 
propounded for an evil purpose." 

Indirect lies more effectually than others destroy 
that mutual confidence which is said to be the band 
of society. They are more frequently repeated, be- 
cause they are not prevented by the dread of de- 
tection. Is it not astonishing that a practice so uni- 
versally infamous should not be more generally 
avoided ? To think, is to renounce it ; and, that 
I may fix the attention of my readers a little longer 
upon the subject, I shall relate a story which, per- 
haps, by those who have much sensibility, will not 
soon be forgotten." 

He then proceeds to relate a story which is, I 



EXTRACTS. 19T 

think, more full of moral teaching than any one I 
ever read on the subject ; and so superior to the 
preceding ones written by myself, that I am glad 
there is no necessity for me to bring them in imme* 
diate competition with it ; — and that all I need do, 
is to give the moral of that story. Dr. Hawkes-^ 
worth call the tale " the Fatal Effects of False 
Apologies and Pretences ;" but " the fatal effects 
of white lying " would have been a juster title ; 
and perhaps, my readers will be of the same opin- 
ion, when I have given an extract from it. I shall- 
preface the extract by saying that, by a series of 
white lies, well-intentioned, but, like all lies, mis* 
chievous in their result, either to the purity of the 
moral feeling, or to the interests of those who utter 
them, jealousy was aroused in the husband of one 
of the heroines, and duel and death were the conse- 
quences. The following letter, written by the too 
successful combatant to his wife, will sufficiently 
explain all that is necessary for my purpose. 

" My dear Charlotte, I am the most wretched of 
all men ; but I do not upbraid you as the cause. 
Would that 1 were not more guilty than you ! We 
are the martyrs of dissimulation. But your dissim* 
ulation and falsehood were the effects of mine. By 
the success of a lie, put into the mouth of a chair- 
man, I was prevented reading a letter which would 
at last have undeceived me ; and, by persisting in 
dissimulation, the Captain has made his friend a 
fugitive, and his wife a widow. Thus does insin- 
cerity terminate in misery and confusion, whether 
in its immediate purpose it succeeds, or is disap- 
pointed. If we ever meet again (to meet again in 
peace is impossible, but, if we ever meet again,) let 
us resolve to be sincere 3 to be sincere is to be wi$e> 
17* 



198 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

innocent, and safe. We venture to commit faults, 
which shame or fear would prevent, if we did not 
hope to conceal them by a lie. But, in the laby- 
rinth of falsehood, men meet those evils which they 
seek to avoid ; and, as in the straight path of truth 
alone they can see before them, in the straight path 
of truth alone they can pursue felicity with success. 
Adieu ! I am ... . dreadful ! .... I can sub- 
scribe nothing that does not reproach and torment 
me." 

Within a few weeks after the receipt of this let- 
ter, the unhappy lady heard that her husband was 
cast away, in his passage to France. 

I shall next bring forward a greater champion 
of truth than the author of the Adventurer ; and 
put her cause into the hands of the mighty author 
of the Rambler. Boswell, in his Life of Dr. John- 
son, says thus : — 

" He would not allow his servant to say he was 
not at home when he really was." " A servant's 
strict regard for truth," said he, " must be weaken- 
ed by the practice. A philosopher may know that 
it is merely a. form of denial ; but few servants are 
such nice distinguishes. If I accustom a servant 
to tell a lie for me, have I not reason to apprehend 
that he will tell many lies for himself V* 



* Boswell adds, in his own person, " I am however satisfied 
that every servant, of any degree of intelligence, understands 
saying, his master is not at home, not at all as the affirmation 
of a fact, but as customary words, intimating that his master 
wishes not to be seen ; so that there can be no bad effect from 
it." So says the man of the world ; and so say almost all the 
men of the world, and women too. But, even they will admit 
that the opinion of Johnson is of more weight, on a question of 
morals, than that of Boswell ; and 1 beg leave to add that of an- 
other powerful-minded and pious man. Scott, the editor of the 
Bible, says, iu a note to the fourth chapter of Judges, " A very 



EXTRACTS, 199 

" The importance of strict and scrupulous verac- 
ity," says Boswell, vol. ii, pp. 454-55, " cannot be 
too often inculcated. Johnson was known to be so 
rigidly attentive to it, that, even in his common con- 
versation, the slightest circumstance was mentioned 
with exact precision. The knowledge of his having 
such a principle and habit made his friends have a 
perfect reliance on the truth of every thing that 
he told, however it might have been doubted, if 
told by OTHERS. 

" What a bribe and a reward does this anecdote 
hold out to us to be accurate in relation ! for, of all 
privileges, that of being considered as a person on 
whose veracity and accuracy every one can implic- 
itly rely, is perhaps the most valuable to a social 
being." Vol. iii, p. 450. 

" Next morning, while we were at breakfast," 
observes the amusing biographer, " Johnson gave 
a very earnest recommendation of what he himself 
practised with the utmost conscientiousness ;" I 
mean, a strict regard to truth, even in the most mi- 
nute particulars. " Accustom your children," said 



criminal deviation from simplicity and godliness is become cus- 
tomary amongst professed Christians. I mean the instructing 
and requiring servants to prevaricate (to word it no more harsh- 
ly,) in order that their masters may be preserved from the in- 
convenience of unwelcome visitants. And it should be con- 
sidered whether they who require their seivants to disregard the 
truth, for their pleasure, will not teach them an evil lesson, and 
habituate them to use falsehood for their own pleasure also." 
When I first wrote on this subject, I was not aware that writers 
of such eminence as those from whom 1 now quote had written 
respecting this Lie of Convenience ; but it is most gratifying to 
me to find the truth of my humble opinion confirmed by such, 
men as Johnson, Scott, and Chalmers. 

I know not who wrote a very amusing and humourous book, 
called " Thinks I to myself ?' but this subject is admirably 
treated there, and with effective ridicule, as, indeed, is worldly 
insincerity in general. 



200 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

he, " constantly to this. If a thing happened at one 
window, and they, when relating it, say that it hap- 
pened at another, do not let it pass ; but instantly 
check them ; you don't know where deviation from 
truth will end. Our lively hostess, whose fancy 
was impatient of the rein, fidgetted at this, and ven- 
tured to say, 'this is too much. If Mr. Johnson 
should forbid me to drink tea, I would comply ; as 
I should feel the restraint only twice a-day ; but 
little variations in narrative must happen a thousand 
times a-day, if one is not perpetually watching.' — 
Johnson, " Well, madam ; and you ought to be per- 
petually watching. It is more from carelessness 
about truth, than from intentional lying, that there 
is so much falsehood in the world.' " 

" Johnson inculcated upon all his friends the im- 
portance of perpetual vigilance against the slightest 
degree of falsehood ; the effect of which, as Sir 
Joshua Reynolds observed to me, has been, that all 
who were of his school are distinguished for a love 
of truth and accuracy, which they would not have 
possessed in the same degree, if they had not been 
acquainted with Johnson.* 

"We talked of the casuistical question," says 
Boswell, vol. iv, 334, " whether it was allowable at 
any time to depart from truth." — Johnson. " The 
general rule is, that truth should never be violated.; 
because it is of the utmost importance to the com- 
fort of life that we should have a full security by 
mutual faith ; and occasional inconveniences should 
be willingly suffered, that we may preserve it. I 
deny," he observed further on, " the lawfulness of 



* However Boswell's self-flattery might blind him, what he 
says relative to the harmlessness of servants denying their mas 
ters, stakes him an exception to this general rule. 



EXTRACTS. 201 

telling a lie to a sick man, for fear of alarming him. 
You have no business with consequences ; you are 
to tell the truth.' " 

Leaving what the great moralist himself added on 
this subject, because it is not necessary for my pur- 
pose, I shall do Boswell the justice to insert the fol- 
lowing testimony, which he himself bears to the 
importance of truth. 

" I cannot help thinking that there is much 
weight in the opinion of those who have held that 
truth, as an eternal and immutable principle, is nev- 
er to be violated for supposed, previous, or superior 
obligations, of which, every man being led to judge 
for himself, there is great danger that we too often, 
from partial motives, persuade ourselves that they 
exist ; and, probably, whatever extraordinary in- 
stances may sometimes occur, where some evil may 
be prevented by violating this noble principle, it 
would be found that human happiness would, upon 
the whole, be more perfect, were truth universally 
preserved." 

But, however just are the above observations, 
they are inferior in pithiness, and practical power, 
to the following few words, extracted from another 
of Johnson's sentences. M All truth is not of equal 
importance ; but, if little violations be allowed, eve- 
ry violation will, in time, be thought little." 

The following quotation is from the 96th number 
of the Rambler. It is the introduction to an Alle- 
gory, called Truth, Falsehood, and Fiction 5 but, 
as I think his didactic is here superior to his narra- 
tive, I shall content myself with giving the first. 

" It is reported of the Persians, by an ancient 
writer, that the sum of their education consisted in 
teaching youth to ride, to shoot with the bow, and 
to speak truth. The bow and the horse were easi* 



202 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ly mastered ; but it would have been happy if we 
had been informed by what arts veracity was culti- 
vated, and by what preservations a Persian mind 
was secured against the temptations of falsehood. 

" There are, indeed, in the present corruptions 
of mankind, many incitements to forsake truth ; the 
need of palliating our own faults, and the conven- 
ience of imposing on the ignorance or credulity of 
others, so frequently occur ; so many immediate 
evils are to be avoided, and so many present grati- 
fications obtained by craft and delusion ; that very 
few of those who are much entangled in life, have 
spirit and constancy sufficient to support them in 
the steady practice of open veracity. In order that 
all men may be taught to speak truth, it is necessa- 
ry that all likewise should learn to hear it ; for no 
species of falsehood is more frequent than flattery, 
to which the coward is betrayed by fear, the de- 
pendant by interest, and the friend by tenderness. 
Those who are neither servile nor timorous, are yet 
desirous to bestow pleasure ; and, while unjust de- 
mands of praise continue to be made, there will al- 
ways be some whom hope, fear, or kindness, will 
dispose to pay them." 

There cannot be a stronger picture given of the 
difficulties attendant on speaking the strict truth : 
and I own I feel it to be a difficulty which it re- 
quires the highest of motives to enable us to over- 
come. Still, as the old proverb says, " where 
there is a will, there is a way ;" and if that will be 
derived from the only right source, the only effec- 
tive motive, 1 am well convinced, that all obstacles 
to the utterance of spontaneous truth would at 
length vanish, and that falseheod would become as 
rare as it is contemptible and pernicious. 

The contemporary of Johnson and Hawkesworth, 



EXTRACTS. 203 

Lord Karnes, comes next on my list of moral writ- 
ers, who have treated on the subject of truth : but I 
am not able to give more than a short extract from 
his Sketches of the History of Man ; a work which 
had no small reputation in its day, and was in every 
one's hand, till eclipsed by the depth and brilliancy 
of more modern Scotch philosophers. 

He says, p. 169, in his 7th section, with respect 
to veracity in particular, " man is so constituted, 
that he must be indebted to information for the 
knowledge of most things that benefit or hurt him ; 
and if he could not depend on information, society 
would be very little benefitted. Further, it is wise- 
ly ordered, that we should be bound by the moral 
sense to speak truth, even where we perceive no 
harm in transgressing that duty, because it is suffi- 
cient that harm may come, though not foreseen ; at 
the same time, falsehood always does mischief. It 
may happen not to injure us externally in our repu- 
tation, or our goods ; but it never fails to injure us 
internally ; the sweetest and most refined pleasure 
of society is a candid intercourse of sentiments, of 
opinion, of desires, and wishes ; and it would be 
poisonous to indulge any falsehood in such an in- 
tercourse." 

My next extracts are from two celebrated divines 
of the Church of England, Bishop Beveridge, and 
Archdeacon Paley. The Bishop, in his " Private 
Thoughts," thus heads one of his sections (which 
he denominates resolutions ; — ) 

Resolution hi. — / am resolved, by the grace 
of God, always to make my tongue and heart go to- 
gether, so as never to speak with the one, what I do 
not think in the other. 

<; As my happiness consisteth in nearness and 
vicinity, so doth my holiness in likeness and con- 



204 ILLUSTRATIONS, OF LYING. 

formity, to the chiefest good. I am so much the 
better, as I am the liker the best ; and so much 
the holier, as I am more conformable to the holiest, 
or rather to him who is holiness itself. Now, one 
great title which the Most High is pleased to give 
himself, and by which, he is pleased to reveal him- 
self to us, is the God of truth : so that I shall be so 
much the liker to the God of Truth, by how much 
I am the more constant to the truth of God. And, 
the farther I deviate from this, the nearer I ap- 
proach to the nature of the devil, who is the father 
of lies, and liars too ; John viii, 44. And there- 
fore to avoid the scandal and reproach, as well as 
the dangerous malignity, of this damnable sin, I am 
resolved, by the blessing of God, always to tune my 
tongue in unison to my heart, so as never to speak 
any thing, but what I think really to be true. So 
that, if ever I speak what is not true, it shall not be 
the error of my will, but of my understanding. 

" I know, lies are commonly distinguished into 
officious, pernicious, and jocose : and some may 
fancy some of them more tolerable than others. 
But, for my own part, I think they are all perni- 
cious ; and therefore, not to be jested withal, nor in- 
dulged, upon any pretence or colour whatsoever. 
Not as if it was a sin, not to speak exactly as a 
thing is in itself, or as it seems to me in its literal 
meaning, without some liberty granted to rhetorical 
tropes and figures ; [for so, the Scripture itself 
would be chargeable with lies ; many things being 
contained in it which are not true in a literal sense.] 
But, I must so use rhetorical, as not to abuse my 
Christian, liberty ; and therefore, never to make 
use of hyperboles, ironies, or other tropes and fig- 
ures, ^to deceive or impose upon my auditors, but 



EXTRACTS. 205 

only for the better adorning, illustrating, or confirm- 
ing the matter. 

"Iara resolved never to promise any thing with 
my mouth, but what I intend to perform in my 
heart ; and never to intend to perform any thing, 
but what I am sure I can perform. For, though I 
may intend to do as I say now, yet there are a thou- 
sand weighty things that intervene, which may turn 
the balance of my intentions, or otherwise hinder 
the performance of my promise." 

I come now to an extract from Dr. Paley, the 
justly celebrated author of the work entitled " Mor- 
al Philosophy." 

" A lie is a breach of promise : for whosoever 
seriously addresses his discourse to another, tacitly 
promises to speak the truth, because he knows that 
the truth is expected. Or the obligation of veraci- 
ty may be made out from the direct ill consequen- 
ces of lying, to social happiness ; which conse- 
quences consist, either in some specific injury to 
particular individuals, or in the destruction of that 
confidence which is essential to the intercourse of 
human life : for which latter reason, a lie may be 
pernicious in its general tendency ; and, therefore, 
criminal, though it propuce no particular or visible 
mischief to any one. There are falsehoods which 
are not lies ; that is, which are not criminal, as 
where no one is deceived ; which is the case in 
parables, fables, jests, tales to create mirth, ludi- 
crous embellishments of a story, where the declar- 
ed design of the speaker is not to inform, but to di- 
vert ; compliments in the subscription of a letter ; 
a servants denying his master ; a prisoner's plead- 
ing not guilty ; an advocate asserting the justice, 
or his belief in the justice, of his clients cause. In 
18 



206 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

such instances, no confidence is destroyed, because 
none was reposed ; no promise to speak the truth is 
violated, because none was given, or understood to 
be given. 

" In the first place, it is almost impossible to 
pronounce beforehand with certainty, concerning 
any lie, that it is inoffensive, volat irrevocabile, and 
collects oft-times reactions in its flight, which en- 
tirely change its nature. It may owe, possibly, its 
mischief to the officiousness or misrepresentation of 
those who circulate it; but the mischief is, never- 
theless, in some degree chargeable upon the origi- 
nal editor. In the next place, this liberty in con- 
versation defeats its own end. Much of the pleas- 
ure, and all the benefit, of conversation depend up- 
on our opinion of the speaker's veracity, for which 
this rule leaves no foundation. The faith, indeed, 
of a hearer must be extremely perplexed, who con- 
siders the speaker, or believes that the speaker con- 
siders himself, as under no obligation to adhere to 
truth, but according to the particular importance of 
what he relates. But, beside and above both these 
reasons, white lies always introduce others of a dark- 
er complexion. I have seldom known any one who 
deserted truth in trifles that could be trusted in 
matters of importance.* 

" Nice distinctions are out of the question upon 
occasions which, like those of speech, return every 
hour. The habit, therefore, when once formed, is 
easily extended to serve the designs of malice or 
interest ; like all habits, it spreads indeed of itself. 

" As there may be falsehoods which are not lies, 



* How contrary is the spirit of this wise observation, and the 
following ones, to that which Paley manifests in his toleration of 
servants being taught to deny their masters ! 



EXTRACTS. 207 

so there are many lies without literal or direct false- 
hood. An opening is always left for this species of 
prevarication, when the literal and grammatical signi- 
fication of a sentence is different from the popular 
and customary meaning. It is the wilful deceit that 
makes the lie ; and we wilfully deceive when our 
expressions are not true in the sense in which we 
believe the hearer apprehends them. Besides, it 
is absurd to contend for any sense of words, in op- 
position to usage, and upon nothing else ; — or a 
man may act a lie, — as by pointing his finger in a 
wrong direction, when a traveller inquires of him his 
road ; — or when a tradesman shuts up his windows, 
to induce his creditors to believe that he is abroad : 
for, to all moral purposes, and therefore as to verac- 
ity, speech and action are the same ; — speech being 
only a mode of action. — Or, lastly, there may be 
lies of omission. A writer on English history, who, 
in his account of the reign of Charles the first, 
should wilfully suppress any evidence of that 
Prince's despotic measures and designs, might be 
said to lie ; for, by entitling his book a History of 
England, he engages to relate the whole truth of 
the history, or, at least, all he knows of it." 

I feel entire unity of sentiment with Paley on all 
that he has advanced in these extracts, except in 
those passages which are printed in Italic ; but 
Chalmers and Scott have given a complete refuta- 
tion to his opinion on the innocence of a servant's 
denying his master, in the extracts given in a pre- 
ceding chapter ; and it will be as ably refuted in 
some succeeding extracts. But, eloquent and con- 
vincing as Paley generally is, it is not from his Mor- 
al Philosophy that he derives his purest reputation. 
He has long been considered as lax, negligent, and 



208 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

inconclusive, on many points, as a moral philoso- 
pher. 

It was when he came forward as a Christian war- 
rior against infidelity, that he brought his best pow- 
ers into the field ; and his name will live for ever 
as the author of Evidences of Christianity, and the 
Horae Paulinas.* I shall now avail myself of the 
assistance of a powerful and eloquent writer of a 
more modern date, William Godwin, with whom 
I have entire correspondence of opinion on the sub- 
ject of spontaneous truth, though, on some other 
subjects, I decidedly differ from him. " It was 
further proposed," says he, " to consider the value 
of truth in a practical view, as it relates to the in- 
cidents and commerce of ordinary life, under which 
form it it known by the denomination of sincerity. 

" The powerful recommendations attendant on 
sincerity are obvious. It is intimately connected 
with the general dissemination of innocence, energy, 
intellectual improvement, and philanthropy. Did 
every man impose this law upon himself ; did he 
regard himself as not authorized to conceal any 
part of his character and conduct ; this circum- 
stance alone would prevent millions of actions from 
being perpetrated, in which we are now induced to 
engage, by the prospect of success and impunity." 
" There is a further benefit that would result to me 
from the habit of telling every man the truth, re- 
gardless of the dictates of worldly prudence and 
custom ; — I should acquire a clear, ingenuous, and 



* l heard the venerable Bishop of say that when he 

«ave Dr. Paley some very valuable preferment, he addressed 
him thus ; " I give you this, Dr. Paley, not for your MoraJ 
Philosophy, nor for your Natural Theology, but for your Evi.^ 
deuces of Christianity, and your Horae Paulinas. 



EXTRACTS. 209 

unembarrassed air. According to the established 
modes of society, whenever I have a circumstance 
to state which would require some effort of mind 
and discrimination, to enable me to do it justice, 
and state it with proper effect, I fly from the task, 
and take refuge in silence and equivocation." 

" But the principle which forbade me conceal- 
ment would keep my mind for ever awake, and for 
ever warm. I should always be obliged to exert 
my attention, lest, in pretending to tell the truth, I 
should tell it in so imperfect and mangled a way, as 
to produce the effect of falsehood. If I spoke to 
a man of my own' faults, or those of his neighbour, 
I should be anxious not to suffer them to come dis- 
torted or exaggerated to his mind, or permit what 
at first was fact, to degenerate into satire. If I 
spoke to him of the errors he had himself commit- 
ted, I should carefully avoid those inconsiderate ex- 
pressions which might convert what was in itself 
beneficent, into offence, and my thoughts would be 
full of that kindness and generous concern for his 
welfare which such a task necessarily brings with 
it. The effects of sincerity upon others would be 
similar to its effects on him that practised it. Plain 
dealing, truth spoken with kindness, but spoken 
with sincerity, is the most wholesome of all disci- 
plines " " The only species of sincerity 

which can, in any degree, prove satisfactory to the 
enlightened moralist and politician, is that where 
frankness is perfect, and every degree of reserve is 
discarded." 

" Nor is there any danger that such a character 
should degenerate into ruggedness and brutality. 

" Sincerity, upon the principles on which it is 
here recommended, is practised from a conscious- 
18* 



210 ILLUSTRATIONS Ot LYING. 

ness of its utility, and from sentiments of philan- 
thropy. 

" It will communicate frankness to the voice, fer- 
vour to the gesture, and kindness to the heart. 

" The duty of sincerity is one of those general 
principles which reflection and experience have 
enjoined upon us as conducive to the happiness of 
mankind. 

"Sincerity and plain dealing are eminently con- 
ducive to the interests of mankind at large, because 
they afford that ground of confidence and reason- 
able expectation which are essential to wisdom and 
virtue." 

I feel it difficult to forbear giving further extracts 
from this very interesting and well-argued part of 
the work from which I quote ; but the limits neces- 
sary for my own book forbid me to indulge myself 
in copious quotations from this. I must, however, 
give two further extracts from the conclusion of this 
chapter. " No man can be eminently either re- 
spectable, or amiable, or useful, who is not distin- 
guished for the frankness and candour of his man- 
ners He that is not conspicuously sin- 
cere, either very little partakes of the passion of do- 
ing good, or is pitiably ignorant of the means 
by which the objects of true benevolence are to be 
effected. " The writer proceeds to discuss the 
mode of excluding visiters, and it is done in so 
powerful a manner, that I must avail myself of the 
aid which it affords me. 

" Let us, then, according to the well-known axi- 
om of morality, put ourselves in the place of that 
man upon whom is imposed this ungracious task. 
Is there any of us that would be contented to per- 
form it in person, and to say that our father and 
brother was not at home, when they were really in 



EXTRACTS. 21 t 

the house ? Should we not feel ourselves contam- 
inated by the plebeian lie ? Can we thus be 
justified in requiring that from another which we 
should shrink from as an act of dishonour in our- 
selves ?" I must here beg leave to state that, gen- 
erally speaking, masters and mistresses only com- 
mand their servants to tell a lie which they would 
be very willing to tell themselves. I have heard 
wives deny their husbands, husbands their wives f 
children their parents, and parents their children, 
with as much unblushing effrontery as if there were 
no such thing as truth, or its obligations ; but I re- 
spect his question on this subject, envy him his igno- 
norance, and admire his epithet plebeian lie. 

But then, I think that all lies are plebeian. Was 
it not a king of France, a captive in this kingdom, 
who said, (with an honourable consciousness, that 
a sovereign is entitled to set a high example to his' 
people,) " if honour be driven from every other 
spot, it should always inhabit the breast of kings !" 
and if truth be banished from every other descrip- 
tion of persons, it ought more especially to be 
found on the lips of those whom rank and fortune 
have placed above the reach of strong temptation 
to falsehood. 

But, while I think that, however exalted be the 
rank of the person who utters a lie, that person suf- 
fers by his deceit a worse than plebeian degrada- 
tion, I also assert, that the humblest plebeian, who is 
known to be incapable of falsehood, and to utter, 
on all occasions, spontaneous truth, is raised far 
above the mendacious patrician in the scale of real 
respectability ; and in comparison, the plebeian be- 
comes patrician, and the patrician plebeian. 

I shall conclude my references, with extracts- 
from two modern Scotch philosophers of consider- 



212 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

able and deserved reputation, Dr. Reid, and Dr, 
Thomas Browne.* 

" Without fidelity and trust, there can be no hu- 
man society. There never was a society even of 
savages, nay, even of robbers and pirates, in which 
there was not a great degree of veracity and fidel- 
ity amongst themselves. Every man thinks him- 
self injured and ill-used when he is imposed upon. 
Every man takes it as a reproach when falsehood 
is imputed to him. There are the clearest evi- 
dences that all men disapprove of falsehood, when 
their judgment is not biassed."- — Reid's Essays on 
the Power of the Human Mind, chap, vi, " On the 
Nature of% Contract." 

" The next duty of which we have to treat, is 
that of veracity, which relates to the knowledge or 
belief of others, as capable of being affected by the 
meanings, true or false, which our words or our 
conduct may convey ; and consists in the faithful 
conformity of our language, or of our conduct, when 
it is intended tacitly to supply the place of language 
to the truth which we profess to deliver ; or, at 
least, to that which is at the time believed by us to 
be true. So much of the happiness of social life 
is derived from the use of language, and so profit- 
less would the mere power of language be, but for 
the truth which dictates it, that the abuse of the 
confidence which is placed in our declarations may 
not merely be in the highest degree injurious to the 
individual deceived, but would tend, if general, to 
throw back the whole race of mankind into that 



* This latter gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of be- 
ing- personally acquainted, has, by his early death, left a chasm 
in the world of literature, and in the domestic circle ia which he 
moved, which cannot easily be filled up. 



EXTRACTS. 218 

barbarism from which they have emerged, and as- 
cended through still purer air, and still brighter sun- 
shine, to that noble height which they have reach- 
ed. It is not wonderful, therefore, that veracity, 
so important to the happiness of all, and yet subject 
to so many temptations of personal interest in the 
violation of it, should, in all nations, have had a 
high place assigned to it among the virtues." — Dr. 
Thomas Browne's Lectures on the Philosophy of 
the Human Mind, vol. iv, p. 225. 

It may be asked why I have taken the trouble to 
quote from so many authors, in order to prove 
what no one ever doubted ; namely, the importance 
and necessity of speaking the truth, and the mean- 
ness and mischief of uttering falsehood. But I 
have added authority to authority, in order renew- 
edly to force on the attention of my readers that 
not one of these writers mentions any allowed ex- 
ception to the general rule, that truth is always to 
be spoken ; no mental reservation is pointed out as 
permitted on special occasions ; no individual is 
authorized to be the judge of right or wrong in his 
own case, and to set his own opinion of the propri- 
ety and necessity of lying, in particular instances, 
against the positive precept to abstain from lying ; 
an injunction which is so commonly enforced in the 
page of the moralist, that it becomes a sort of im- 
perative command. Still, in spite of the universal- 
ly-acknowledged conviction of mankind, that truth 
is virtue, and falsehood vice, I scarcely know an 
individual who does not occasionally shrink from 
acting up to his conviction on this point, and is not, 
at times, irresistibly impelled to qualify that convic- 
tion, by saying, that on " almost all occasions the 
truth is to be spoken, and never to be withheld." 
Or they may, perhaps, quote the well-known pro- 



214 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

verb, that " truth is not to be spoken at all times." 
But the real meaning of that proverb appears to me 
to be simply this : that we are never officiously or 
gratuitously to utter offensive truths ; not that 
truth, when required, is ever to be withheld. The 
principle of truth is an immutable principle, or it is 
of no use as a guard, nor safe as the foundation of 
morals. A moral law on which it is dangerous to 
act to the uttermost, is, however admirable, no bet- 
ter than Harlequin's horse, which was the very best 
and finest of all horses, and worthy of the admira- 
tion of the whole world ; but, unfortunately, the 
horse was dead ; and if the law to tell the truth 
inviolably, is not to be strictly adhered to, without 
any regard to consequences, it is, however admira- 
ble, as useless as the merits of Harlequin's dead 
horse. King Theodoric, when advised by his 
courtiers to debase the coin, declared, " that no- 
thing which bore his image should ever lie." Hap- 
py would it be for the interests of society, if, having 
as much proper self-respect as this good monarch 
had, we could resolve never to allow our looks or 
words to bear any impress, but that of the strict 
truth ; and were as reluctant to give a false impres- 
sion of ourselves, in any way, as to circulate light 
sovereigns and forged banknotes. Oh ! that the 
day may come when it shall be thought as dishon-* 
ourable to commit the slightest breach of veracity, 
as to pass counterfeit shillings ; and when both 
shall be deemed equally detrimental to the safety 
and prosperity of the community. 

I intend in a future work to make some observa- 
tions on several collateral descendants from the 
large family of lies. Such as inaccuracy in re- 
lation; promise-breaking; engagement-break- 
ing, and want of punctuality. Perhaps pro- 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 215 

crastination comes in a degree under the head of 
lying ; at least procrastinators lie to themselves ; 
they say " I will do so and so to-morrow," and as 
they believe their own assertions, they are guilty of 
self-deception, the most dangerous of all decep- 
tions. But those who are enabled by constant 
watchfulness never to deceive others, will at last 
learn never to deceive themselves ; for truth being 
their constant aim in all their dealings they will not 
shrink from that most effective of all means to ac- 
quire it, self-examination. 



CHAPTER XV. 

OBSERVATIONS of the extracts from hawkes- 

WORTH AND OTHERS. 

In the preceding chapter, 1 have given various 
extracts from authors who have written on the sub- 
ject of truth, and borne their testimony to the ne- 
cessity of a strict adherence to it on all occasions 3 
if individuals wish not only to be safe and respecta- 
ble themselves, but to establish the interests of so- 
ciety on a sure foundation ; but, before I proceed 
to other comments on this important subject, I shall 
make observations on some of the above-mentioned 
extracts. 

Dr. Hawkesworth says, " that the liar, and only 
the liar, is universally despised, abandoned, and 
disowned." But is this the fact ? Inconvenient, 
dangerous, and disagreeable, though it be, to asso- 
ciate with those on whose veracity we cannot de- 



216 ILLUSTRATIONS GP LYING. 

pend ; yet which of us has ever known himself, or 
others, refuse intercourse with persons who habit- 
ually violate the truth ? We dismiss the servant 
indeed, whose habit of lying offends us, and we 
cease to employ the menial, or the tradesman ; but 
when did we ever hesitate to associate with the liar 
of rank and opulence ? When was our moral sense 
so delicate as to make us refuse to eat of the costly 
food, and reject the favour or services of any one, 
because the lips of the obliger were stained with 
falsehood, and the conversation with guile ? Sure- 
ly, this writer overrates the delicacy of moral feel- 
ing in society, or we, of these latter days, have fear- 
fully degenerated from our ancestors. 

He also says, " that the imputation of a lie, is an 
insult for which life only can atone." And amongst 
men of worldly honour, duel is undoubtedly the re- 
sult of the lie given, and received. Consequently, 
the interests of truth are placed under the secure 
guardianship of fear on great occasions. But, it is 
not so on daily, and more common ones, and the 
man who would thus fatally resent the imputation 
of falsehood, does not even reprove the lie of con- 
venience in his wife or children, nor refrain from 
being guilty of it himself; he will often, perhaps, 
be the bearer of a lie to excuse them from keeping 
a disagreeable engagement ; and will not scruple to 
make lying apologies for some negligence of his 
own. But, is Dr. Hawkesworth right in saying 
that offenders like these are shunned and despised ? 
Certainly not ; nor are they even self -reprobated, 
nor would they be censured by others, if their false- 
hood were detected. Yet, are they not liars ? and 
is the lie, imputed to them, (in resentment of which 
imputation they were willing to risk their life, and 
the life of another,) a greater breach of the moral 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 217 

law, than the little lies which they are so willing to 
tell ? and who, that is known to tell lies on trivial 
occasions, has a right to resent the imputation of 
lying on great ones ? Whatever flattering unction 
we may lay to our souls, there is only one wrong 
and one right ; and I repeat, that, as those servants 
who pilfer grocery only are with justice called 
thieves, because they have thereby shown that the 
principle of honesty is not in them, — so may the 
utterers of little lies be with justice called liars, be- 
cause they equally show that they are strangers to 
the restraining and immutable principle of truth. 

Hawkesworth says, " that indirect lies more ef- 
fectually destroy mutual confidence, that band of 
society, than any others ;" and I fully agree with 
him in his idea of the " great turpitude, and great- 
er meanness, of those forms of speech, which de- 
ceive without direct falsehood ;" but, I cannot 
agree with him, that these deviations from truth are 
" universally infamous ;" on the contrary, they are 
even scarcely reckoned a fault at all ; their very 
frequency prevents them from being censured, and 
they are often considered both necessary and justi- 
fiable. 

In that touching and useful tale by which Hawkes- 
worth illustrates the pernicious effect of indirect, as 
well as direct, lies, " a lie put into the mouth of a 
chairman, and another lie, accompanied by with- 
holding of the whole truth, are the occasion 
of duel and of death." 

And what were these lies, direct and indirect, 
active and passive ? Simply these. The bearer of 
•a note is desired to say that he comes from a millin- 
er, when, in reality, he comes from a lady in the 
neighbourhood ; and one of the principal actors in 
19 



218 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the story leaves word that he is gone to a coffee- 
house, when, in point of fact, he is gone to a friend's 
house. That friend, on being questioned by him, 
withholds, or conceals part of the truth, meaning to 
deceive ; the wife of the questioner does the same ; 
and thus, though both are innocent even in thought, 
of any thing offensive to the strictest propriety, they 
become involved in the fatal consequences of imput- 
ed guilt, from which a disclosure of the whole truth 
would at once have preserved them. 

Now, I would ask if there be any thing more com- 
mon in the daily affairs of life, than those very lies 
and dissimulations which I have selected ? 

Who has not given, or heard given, this order, 
" do not say where you come from ;" and often ac- 
companied by " if you are asked, say you do not 
know, or you come from such a place." Who 
does not frequently conceal where they have been ; 
and While they own to the questioner that they 
have been to such a place, and seen such a person, 
keep back the information that they have been to an- 
other place, and seen another person, though they 
are very conscious that the two latter were the real 
objects of the inquiry made ? 

Some may reply " yes ; 1 do these things every 
day perhaps, and so does every one ; and where is 
the harm of it ? You cannot be so absurd as to 
believe that such innocent lies, and a concealment 
such as I have a right to indulge in, will certainly 
be visited by consequences like those imagined by 
a writer of fiction ?" 

I answer, no ; but though I cannot be sure that 
fatal consequences will be the result of that impos- 
sible thing, an innocent lie, some consequences 
attend on all deviations from truth, which it were 
better to avoid. In the first place, the lying order 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 219 

given to a servant, or inferior , not only lowers the 
standard of truth in the mind of the person so com- 
manded, but it lowers the person who gives it ; it 
weakens that salutary respect with which the lower 
orders regard the higher ; servants and inferiors 
are shrewd observers ; and those domestics who de- 
tect a laxity of morals in their employers, and find 
that they do not hold truth sacred, but are ready to 
teach others to lie for their service, deprive them- 
selves of their best claim to respect and obedience 
from them, that of a deep conviction of their mor- 
al superiority. And they who discover in their 
intimate friends and associates a systematic habit, 
an assumed and exercised right of telling only as 
much of the truth as suits their inclinations and 
purposes, must feel their confidence in them most 
painfully destroyed ; and listen, in future, to their 
disclosures and communications with unavoidable 
suspicion, and degrading distrust. 

The account given by Boswell of the regard paid 
by Dr. Johnson to truth on all occasions, furnishes 
us with a still better shield against deviations from 
it, than can be afforded even by the best and most 
moral fiction. For, as Longinus was said " to be 
himself the great sublime he draws," so Johnson 
was himself the great example of the benefit of 
those precepts which he lays down for the edifica- 
tion of others ; and what is still more useful and 
valuable to us, he proves that however difficult it 
may be to speak the truth, and to be accurate on 
all occasions, it is certainly possible ; for, as John- 
son could do it, why cannot others ? It requires 
not his force of intellect to enable us to follow his 
example ; all that is necessary is a knowledge of 
right and wrong, a reverence for truth, and an ab* 
horrence of deceit. 



220 ILLUSTRATIONS OE LYING. 

Such was Johnson's known habit of telling the 
truth, that even improbable things were believed, 
if he narrated them ! Such was the respect for 
truth which his practice of it excited, and such the 
beneficial influence of his example, that all his in- 
timate companions " were distinguished for a love 
of truth and an accuracy" derived from association 
with him. 

I can never read this account of our great mor- 
alist, without feeling my heart glow with emula- 
tion and triumph ! With emulation, because I 
know that it must be my own fault, if I become 
not as habitually the votary of truth as he himself 
was ; and with triumph, because it is a complete 
refutation of the commonplace arguments against 
enforcing the necessity of spontaneous truth, that it 
is absolutely impossible ; and that, if possible, what 
would be gained by it ? 

What would be gained by it ? Society at large 
would, in the end, gain a degree of safety and puri- 
ty far beyond what it has hitherto known ; and, in 
the meanwhile, the individuals who speak truth 
would obtain a prize worthy the highest aspirings of 
earthly ambition, — the constant and involuntary 
confidence and reverence of their fellow-creatures. 
The consciousness of truth and ingenuousness 
gives a radiance to the countenance, a freedom to 
the play of the lips, a persuasion to the voice, and 
a graceful dignity to the person, which no other 
quality of mind can equally bestow. And who is 
not able to recollect the direct contrast to this pic- 
ture exhibited by the conscious utterer of falsehood 
and disingenuousness ? Who has not observed the 
downcast eye, the snapping restless eyelid, the 
changing colour, and the hoarse, impeded voice, 
which sometimes contradict what the hesitating lip - 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 221 

utters, and stamp, on the positive assertion, the un- 
doubted evidence of deceit and insincerity ? 

Those who make up the usual mass of society 
are, when tempted to its common dissimulations, 
like little boats on the ocean, which are continually 
forced to shift sail, and row away from danger ; or, 
if obliged to await it, are necessitated, from want of 
power, to get on one side of the billow, instead of 
directly meeting it. While the firm votaries of 
truth, when exposed to the temptations of falsehood, 
proceed undaunted along the direct course, like 
the majestic vessel, coming boldly and directly 
on, breasting the waves in conscious security, and 
inspiring confidence in all whose well-being is 
intrusted to them. Is it not a delightful sen- 
sation to feel and to inspire confidence ? Is it not 
delightful to know, when we lie down at night, that, 
however darkness may envelope us, the sun will 
undoubtedly rise again, and chase away the gloom ? 
True, he may rise in clouds, and his usual splen- 
dour may not shine out upon us during the whole 
diurnal revolution $ still, we know that, though 
there be not sunshine, there will be light, and we 
betake ourselves to our couch, confiding in the as- 
surances of past experience, that day will succeed 
to night, and light to darkness. But, is it not equal- 
ly delightful to feel this cheering confidence in the 
moral system of the circle in which we move . ? And 
can any thing inspire it so much as the constant 
habit of truth in those with whom we live ? To 
know that we have friends on whom we can always 
rely for honest counsel, ingenuous reproof, and sin- 
cere sympathy, — to whom we can look with never- 
doubting confidence in the night of our soul's de- 
spondency, knowing that they will rise on us like 
19* 



222 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the cheering never-failing light of day, speaking 
unwelcome truths perhaps, but speaking them with 
tenderness and discretion, — is, surely, one of the 
dearest comforts which this world can give. It is 
the most precious of the earthly staffs, permitted to 
support us as we go, trembling, short-sighted, and 
weary, pilgrims, along the chequered path of human 
existence. 

And is it not an ambition worthy of thinking and 
responsible beings to endeavour to qualify ourselves, 
and those whom we love, to be such friends as 
these ? And if habits of unblemished truth will 
bestow this qualification, were it not wise to labour 
hard in order to attain them, undaunted by difficul- 
ty, undeterred by the sneers of worldlings, who can- 
not believe in the possibility of that moral excellence 
which they feel themselves unable to obtain ? 

To you, O ye parents and preceptors ! I partic- 
ularly address myself. Guard your own lips from 
" speaking leasing," that the quickly discerning 
child or servant, may not, in self-defence, set the 
force of your example against that of your pre- 
cepts. If each individual family would seriously 
resolve to avoid every species of falsehood them- 
selves, whether authorised by custom or not, and 
would visit every deviation from truth, in those ac- 
cused, with punishment and disgrace, the example 
would unceasingly spread ; for, even now, wher- 
ever the beauty of truth is seen, its influence is im- 
mediately felt, and its value acknowledged. Indi- 
vidual efforts, however humble, if firm and repeat- 
ed, must be ultimately successful, as the feeble 
mouse in the fable, was, at last, enabled, by its 
• perseverance, to gnaw the cords asunder which held 
the mighty lion. Difficult, I own. would such gen- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 223 

eral purification be ; but what is impossible to zeal 
and enterprize . ? 

Hercules, as fabulous but instructive story tells 
us, when he was required to perform the apparent- 
ly impossible task of cleansing the Augean stables, 
exerted all his strength, and turned the course of a 
river through them to effect his purpose, proving 
by his success, that nothing is impossible to perse- 
verance and exertion ; and however long the du- 
ration, and wide-spread. ng the pollutions of false- 
hood and dissimulation in the world, there is a riv- 
er, which, if suffered to flow over their impurities, 
is powerful enough to wash away every stain, since 
it flows from the " fountain of ever-living 



CHAPTER XVI. 

RELIGION THE ONLY BASIS OF TRUTH. 

All the moralists from whom 1 have quoted, 
and those on whom I have commented in the pre- 
ceding chapters, have treated the subject of truth, 
as moralists only. They do not lay it down as an 
indisputable fact, that truth, as a principle of action, 
is obligatory on us all, in enjoined obedience to the 
clear dictates of revealed religion. Therefore, 
they have kept out of sight the strongest motive to 
abhor lying, and cleave unto truth, obedience to 
the divine will ; yet, as necessary as were the 
shield and the buckler to the ancient warriors, is 
the " breastplate of faith" to the cause of spontane- 
ous truth. It has been asserted that morality might 



224 ILLUSTRATIONS Of LYI.NG, 

exist in all its power and purity, were there no such 
thing as religion, since it is conducive to the earth- 
ly interests and happiness of man. But, are moral 
motives sufficient to protect us in times of particular 
temptations ? There appears to me the same dif- 
ference between morality, unprotected by religious 
motives, and morality derived from them, as be- 
tween the palace of ice, famous in Russian story, 
and a castle built of ever-duruag stone ; perfect to 
the eye, and, as if formed to last for ever was the 
building of frost-work, ornamented and lighted up 
for the pleasure of the sovereign ; but, it melted 
away before the power of natural and artificial 
warmth, and was quickly resolved to the element 
from which it sprung. But the castle formed of 
stones joined together by a strong and enduring ce- 
ment, is proof against all assailment ; and, even 
though it may be occasionally shattered by the 
enemies, it still towers in its grandeur, indestructi- 
ble, though impaired. In like manner, unassaila- 
ble and perfect, in appearance, may be the virtue 
«f the mere moralist ; but when assailed by the 
warmth of the passions en one side, and by differ- 
ent enemies on the other, his virtue, like the palace 
of ice, is likely to melt away, and be as though it 
had not been. But, the virtue of the truly reli- 
gious man, even though it may on occasion be slight- 
ly shaken, is yet proof against any important injury ; 
and remains, spite of temptation and danger, in its 
original parity and power. The moral man may, 
therefore, utter spontaneous truth ; but the reli- 
gious man must: for he remembers the following 
precepts which amongst others he has learned from 
the scriptures ; and knows that to speak lies is dis- 
pleasing tO the GOD OF TRUTH. 

In the 6th chapter of Leviticus, the Lord threat* 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 225 

ens the man " Who lies to his neighbour, and who 
deceives his neighbour." Again he, says, " Ye 
shall not deal falsely, neither lie to one another." 
We read in the Psalms that "the Lord will de- 
stroy those who speak leasing." He is said to be 
angry with the wicked every day, who have con- 
ceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. 
" He that worketh deceit," says the Psalmist. 
■ shall not dwell within my house — he that telleth 
lies shall not tarry in my sight." The Saviour, in 
the 8th chapter of John, calls the "devil " a liar, 
and the father of lies." Paul, in the 3rd chapter 
of Colossians, says, " Lie not one to another !" 
Prov. vi. 19, " The Lord hates a false witness that 
speaketh lies." Prov. ix. " And he that speaketh 
lies shall perish." Prov. xix. 22, " A poor man 
is better than a liar." James iii. 14, " Lie not 
against the truth." Isaiah xvii. " The Lord shall 
sweep away the refuge of lies." Prov. xviii. " Let 
the lying lips be put to silence." Psalm cxix. 29, 
" Remove from me the way of lying." Ps. Ixiii. 
11, " The mouth that speaketh lies shall be stop- 
ped." The fate of Gehazi, in the 5th chapter of 
the second book of Kings, who lied to the prophet 
Elisha, and went out of his presence " a leper 
whiter than snow ;" and the judgment on Ananias 
and Sapphira, in the 5th chapter of Acts, on the 
former for withholding the truth intending 
to deceive, and on the latter for telling a direct 
lie, are awful proofs how hateful falsehood is in the 
sight of the Almighty ; and, that though the seasons 
of his immediate judgments may be past, his ven- 
geance against every species of falsehood is tre- 
mendously certain. 

But, though as 1 have stated more than once, all 
persons, even those who are most negligent of truth. 



226 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

exclaim continually against lying ; and liars cannot 
forgive the slightest imputation against their veraci- 
ty, still, few are willing to admit that telling lies of 
courtesy, or convenience, is lyings or that the oc- 
casional violator of truth, for what are called inno- 
cent purposes, ought to be considered as a liar ; and 
thence the universal falsehood which prevails. And, 
surely, that moral precept which every one claims 
a right to violate, according to his wants and wishes, 
loses its restraining power, and is, as I have before 
observed, for all its original purposes, wholly anni- 
hilated. 

But, as that person has no right to resent being 
called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
being who allows himself to indulge in any one 
species of lie, cannot declare with justice that he 
deserves not the name of a liar. The general voice 
and tenor of Scripture say " lie not at all." 

This may appear a command very difficult to 
obey, but he who gave it, has given us a still more 
appalling one ; " be ye perfect, as your Father in 
heaven is perfect." Yet, surely, he would never 
have given a command impossible for us to fulfil. 
However, be that as it may, we are to try to fulfil 
it. The drawing-master who would form a pupil 
to excellence, does not set incorrect copies before 
him, but the most perfect models of immortal art ; 
and that tyro who is awed into doing nothing by the 
perfection of his model, is not more weak than those 
who persevere in the practice of lying by the seem- 
ing impossibility of constantly telling the truth. 
The pupil may never be able to copy the model set 
before him, because his aids are only human and 
earthly ones. But, 

He who has said that " as our day our strength 



RELIGION THE RASIS OF TRUTH. 227 

shall be ;" He whose ear is open to the softest cry; 
He whom the royal psalmist called upon to deliver 
him from those " whose mouth speaketh vanity, 
and whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood ;" 
— This pure, this powerful, this perfect Being, still 
lives to listen to the supplications of all who trust 
in him ; and will, in the hour of temptation to utter 
falsehood and deceit, strengthen them out of Zion. 
In all other times of danger the believer suppli- 
cates the Lord to grant him force to resist tempta- 
tion ; but, whoever thinks of supplicating him to be 
enabled to resist daily temptation to what is called 
little, or white lying ? Yet, has the Lord revealed 
to us what species of lying he tolerates, and what 
he reproves ? Does he tell us that we may tell the 
lie of courtesy and convenience, but avoid all oth- 
ers ? The lying of Ananias was only the passive 
lie of concealing that he had kept back part of his 
own property, yet he was punished with instant 
death! The only safety is in believing, or remem- 
bering, that all lying and insincerity whatever is re- 
bellion against the revealed will of the great God of 
Truth ; and they who so believe, or remember,' are 
prepared for the strongest attacks of the soul's ad- 
versary, " that devil, who is the father of lies ;" 
for their weapons are derived from the armoury of 
heaven ; their steps are guided by light from the 
sanctuary, and the cleansing river by which they 
are enabled to drive away all the pollutions of false- 
hood and deceit, is that pure river of " the water 
of life, flowing from the throne of God, and of the 
Lamb." 

I trust that I have not in any of the preceding 
pages underrated the difficulty of always speaking 
the truth ; — I have only denied that it was impossi- 
ble to do so, and I have pointed out the only means 
by which the possibility of resisting the temptation 



228 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

to utter falsehood might be secured to us on all oc- 
casions; namely, religious motives derived from 
obedience to the will of God. 

Still, in order to prove how well aware I am of 
the difficulty in question, I shall venture to bring 
forward some distinguished instances on record of 
holy men, who were led by the fear of death and 
other motives to lie against their consciences ; there- 
by exhibiting beyond a doubt, the difficulty of a 
constant adherence to the practice of sincerity. 
But they also prove that the real Christian must be 
miserable under a consciousness of having violated 
the truth, and that to escape from the "most poignant 
of all pangs, the pang of self-reproach, the delinquents 
in question sought for refuge from their remorse, by 
courting that very death which they had endeavour- 
ed to escape from by being guilty of falsehood. 
They at the same time furnish convincing proofs 
that it is in the power of the sincere penitent to re- 
trace his steps, and be reinstated in the height of 
virtue whence he has fallen, if he will humble him- 
self before the great Being whom he has offended, 
and call upon Him who can alone save to the utter- 
most." 

My first three examples are taken from the 
martyred reformers, who were guilty of the most 
awful species of lying, in signing recantations of 
their opinions, even when their belief in them re- 
mained unchanged ; but who, as I have before ob- 
served, were compelled by the power of that word 
of God written on the depth of the secret heart, to 
repent with agonizing bitterness of their apostacy 
from truth, and to make a public reparation for 
their short-lived error, by a death of patient suffer- 
ing, and even of rejoicing. 

Jerome of Prague comes first upon the list. 



KELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 229 

He was born at the close of the thirteenth century ; 
and in the year 1415, after having spent his youth 
in the pursuit of knowledge at the greatest Univer- 
sities in Europe, — namely, those of Prague, Paris, 
Heildelberg, and Cologne, — we find him visiting 
Oxford, at which place he became acquainted with 
the works of WicklifTe ; and at his return to Prague 
he not only professed himself an open favourer of 
the doctrines of that celebrated reformer ; but, 
finding that John Huss was at the head of Wick- 
lifTe's party in Bohemia, he attached himself imme- 
diately to that powerful leader. It were unneces- 
sary for me to follow him through the whole of his 
polemical career, as it is the close of it only which 
is fitted for my purpose ; suffice, that having been 
brought before the Council of Constance, in the 
year 1415, to answer for what they deemed his 
heresies, a thousand voices called out, even after 
his first examination, " away with him ! burn him ! 
burn him ! burn him !" On which, little doubting 
that his power and virtuous resistance could ever 
fail him in time of need, Jerome replied, looking 
round on the assembly with dignity and confidence, 
u Since nothing can satisfy you but my blood, 
God's will be done !" 

Severities of a most uncommon nature were now 
inflicted on him, in order to constrain him to recant, 
a point of which the council were excessively de- 
sirous. So rigourous was his confinement, that at 
length it brought upon him a dangerous illness, in 
the course of which he entreated to have a confes- 
sor sent to him ; but he was given to understand, 
that only on certain terms would this indulgence be 
granted ; notwithstanding, he remained immove- 
able. The next attempt on his faithfulness was after 
20 



230 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the martyrdom of Huss ; when all its affecting and 
appalling details were made known to him, he listen- 
ed, however, without emotion, and answered in 
language so resolute and determined, that they had 
certainly no hope of his sudden conversion. But, 
whether, too confident in his own strength, he neg- 
lected to seek, as he had hitherto done, that only 
strength " which cometh from above," it is certain 
that his constancy at length gave way. " He with- 
stood," says Gilpin, in his Lives of the Reformers, 
" the simple fear of death ; but imprisonment, 
chains, hunger, sickness, and torture, through a 
succession of months, was more than human nature 
could bear ; and though he still made a noble stand 
for the truth, when brought three times before the 
infuriated council, he began at last to waver, and to 
talk obscurely of his having misunderstood the 
tendency of some of the writings of Huss. Prom- 
ises and threats were now redoubled upon him, till, 
at last, he read aloud an ample recantation of all the 
opinions that he had recently entertained, and de- 
clared himself in every article a firm believer with 
the church of Rome." 

But with a heavy heart he retired from the coun- 
cil ; chains were removed from his body, but his 
mind was corroded by chains of his conscience, 
and his soul was burthened with a load, till then 
unknown to it. Hitherto, the light of an approving 
conscience had cheered the gloom of his dungeon, 
but now all was dark to him both without and within. 

But in this night of his moral despair, the day- 
spring from on high was again permitted to visit 
him, and the penitent was once more enabled to 
seek assistance from his God. Jerome had long 
been apprized that he was to be brought to a sec- 
ond trial, upon some new evidence which had ap- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 231 

peared ; and this was his only consolation in the 
midst of his painful penitence. At length, the mo- 
ment so ardently desired by him arrived ; and, re- 
joicing at an opportunity of publicly retracting his 
errors, and deploring his unworthy falsehood, he 
eagerly obeyed the summons to appear before the 
council in the year 1416. There after delivering 
an oration, which was, it is said, a model of pathet- 
ic eloquence, he ended by declaring before the 
whole assembly, " that, though the fear of death, 
and the prevalence of human infirmity, had induced 
him to retract those opinions with his lips which had 
drawn on him the anger and vengeance of the 
council, yet they were then and still the opinions 
near and dear to his heart, and that he solemnly 
declared they were opinions in which he alone be- 
lieved, and for which he was ready, and even glad 
to die." " It was expected," says Pogge the Flo- 
rentine, who was present at his examination, " that 
he would have retracted his errors ; or, at least, 
have apologized for them j but he plainly declared 
that he had nothing to retract." After launching 
forth into the most eloquent encomiums on Huss, 
declaring him to be a wise and holy man, and la- 
menting his unjust and cruel death, he avowed that 
he had armed himself with a firm resolution to fol- 
low the steps of that blessed martyr, and suffer with 
constancy whatever the malice of his enemies 
should inflict ; and he was mercifully enabled to 
keep his resolution. 

When brought to the stake, and when the wood 
was beginning to blaze, he sang a hymn, which he 
continued with great fervency, till the fury of the 
fire scorching him, he was heard to cry out, " O 
Lord God ! have mercy or* me !" and a little af- 
terwards, « thou knowest," he cried, " how I 



232 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING* 

have loved thy truth ;" and he continued to exhibit 
a spectacle of intense suffering, made bearable by 
as intense devotion, till the vital spark was in mercy 
permitted to expire ; and the contrite, but then tri- 
umphant, spirit was allowed to return unto the God 
who gave it. 

Thomas Bilney, the next on my list, " was 
brought up from a child (says Fox, in his Acts and 
Monuments) in the University of Cambridge, profit- 
ing in all kind of liberal sciences even unto the 
profession of both laws. But, at the last, having 
gotten a better school-master, even the Holy Spirit 
of Christ enduing his heart by privie inspiration with 
the knowledge of better and more wholesome 
things, he came unto this point, that forsaking the 
knowledge of man's Iawes he converted his studie 
to those things which tended more unto godlinesse, 
than gainfulnesse. At the last, Bilney forsaking 
the universitie, went into many places teaching and 
preaching, being associate with Thomas Arthur, 
which accompanied him from the universitie. The 
authorise of Thomas Wolsey, Cardinall of York, 
at that time was greate in England, but his temper 
and pride much greater, which did evidently de- 
clare unto all wise men the manifest vanitie, not 
only of his life, but also of all the Bishops and cler- 
gie ; whereupon, Bilney, with other good men, 
marvelling at the incredible insolence of the clergie, 
which they could no longer suffer or abide, began 
to shake and reprove this excessive pompe, and al- 
so to pluck at the authority of the Bishop of Rome." 

It therefore became necessary that the Cardinal 
should rouse himself and look about him. A chap- 
ter being held at Westminster for the occasion, 
Thomas Bilney, with his friends, Thomas Arthur 
and Hugh Latimer, were brought before them, 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 233 

Gilpin says, " That, as Bilney was considered as 
the Heresiarch, the rigour of the court was chiefly 
levelled against him. The principal persons at this 
time concerned in Ecclesiastical affaires besides 
Cardinal Wolsey, were Warham, Archbishop of 
Canterbury, and Tunstall, Bishop of London." 
The latter was of all the prelates of these times the 
most deservedly esteemed, " as he was not in- 
fluenced by the spirit of popery, and had just no- 
tions of the mild genius of Christianity ;" but, eve- 
ry deposition against Bilney was enlarged upon 
with such unrelenting bitterness, that Tunstall, 
though the president of the court, despaired of be- 
ing able to soften by his influence the enraged pro- 
ceedings of his colleagues. And, when the process 
came to an end, " Bilney, declaring himself what 
they called an obstinate heretic, was found guilty." 
Tunstall now proved the kindness of his heart. He 
could not come forward in Bilney's favour by a 
judicial interference, but he laboured to save him 
by all means in his power. " He first set his 
friends upon him to persuade him to recant, and 
when that would not do, he joined his entreaties to 
theirs ; had patience with him day after day, and 
begged he would not oblige him, contrary to his in- 
clinations, to treat him with severity." 

The man whom fear was not able to move, was 
not proof against the language of affectionate per- 
suasion. " Bilney could not withstand the winning 
rhetoric of Tunstall, though he withstood the me- 
naces of Warham." He therefore recanted, bore 
a fagot on his shoulders in the Cathedral church of 
Paul, bareheaded, according to the custom of the 
times, and was dismissed with Latimer and the 
20* 



234 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

others who had met with milder treatment and easi- 
er terms." 

The liberated heretics as they were called, re- 
turned directly to Cambridge, where they were re- 
ceived with open arms by their friends ; but in the 
midst of this joy, Bilney kept aloof, bearing on his 
countenance the marks of internal suffering and in- 
cessant gloom. " He received the congratulations 
of his officious friends with confusion and blushes ;" 
he had sinned against his God, therefore he could 
neither be gratified nor cheered by the affection of 
any earthly being. In short, his mind at length 
preying on itself, nearly disturbed his reason, and 
his friends dared not allow him to be left alone 
either by night or day. They tried to comfort 
him ; but they tried in vain ; and when they en- 
deavoured to sooth him by certain texts in Scrip- 
ture, a it was as though a man would run him 
through with a sword." In the agonies of his des- 
pair he uttered pathetic and eager accusations of 
his friends, of Tunstall, and, above all, of himself. 
At length, his violence having had its course, it sub- 
sided, by degrees, into a state of profound melan- 
choly. In this state he continued from the year 
1629 to 1631, " reading much, avoiding company ; 
and, in all respects, preserving the severity of an 
ascetic." 

It is interesting to observe in how many different 
ways our soul's adversary deals with us, in order 
to allure us to perdition ; and he is never so suc- 
cessful as when he can make the proffered sin as- 
sume the appearance of what is amiable. This 
seems to have been the case with the self-judged 
Bilney. To the fear of death, and the menaces of 
Warham, we are told that he opposed a resolution 
and an integrity which could not be overcome ; 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 235 

but the gentle entreaties of affection, and the ten- 
der, persuasive eloquence of Tunstall, had power to 
conquer his love of truth, and make the pleadings 
of conscience vain ; while he probably looked upon 
his yielding as a proof of affectionate gratitude, and 
that, not to consider the feelings of those who lov- 
ed him, would have been offensive, and ungrateful 
hardness of heart. 

But, whatever were his motives to sin, that sin 
was indeed visited with remorse as unquestionable 
as it was efficacious ; and it is pleasant to turn from 
the contemplation of Bilney's frailty, to that of its 
exemplary and courted expiation. 

The consequences of this salutary period of sor- 
row and 'seclusion was, that after having, for some 
time, thrown out hints that he was meditating an ex- 
traordinary design ; after saying that he was almost 
prepared, that he would shortly go up to Jerusalem, 
and that God must be glorified in him ; and keep- 
ing his friends in painful suspense by this mysteri- 
ous language, he told them at last that he was fully 
determined to expiate his late shameful abjuration, 
that wicked lie against his conscience, by death. 

There can be no doubt but that his friends again 
interposed to shake his resolution ; but that Being 
who had lent a gracious ear to the cry of his pen- 
itence and his agony, " girded up his loins for the 
fight," and enabled him to sacrifice every human 
affection at the foot of the cross, and strengthened 
him to take up that cross, and bear it, unfainting, to 
the end. He therefore broke from all his Cam- 
bridge ties, and set out for Norfolk, the place of his 
nativity, and which, for that reason, he chose to 
make the place of his death. 

When he arrived there, he preached openly in 
fields, confessing his fault, and preaching publicly 



236 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

that doctrine which he had before abjured, to be 
the very truth, and willed all men to beware by 
him, and never to trust to their fleshly friends m 
causes of religion ; and so setting forward in his 
journey towards the celestial Jerusalem, he depart- 
ed from thence to the Anchresse in Norwich, (whom 
he had converted to Christ) and there gave her a 
New Testament of Tind all's translation, and " the 
obedience of a christian-man ;" whereupon he was 
apprehended, and carried to prison. 

Nixe, (the blind Bishop Nixe, as Fox calls him) 
the then Bishop of Norwich, was a man of a fierce, 
inquisitorial spirit, and he lost no time in sending up 
for a writ to burn him. 

In the meanwhile, great pains were taken by 
divers religious persons to re-convert him to what 
his assailants believed to be the truth ; but he hav- 
ing " planted himselfe upon the firm rocke of God's 
word, was at a point, and so continued to the end." 

While Bilney lay in the county gaol, waiting the 
arrival of the writ for his execution, he entirely re- 
covered from that melancholy which had so long 
oppressed him ; and " like an honest man who 
had long lived under a difficult debt, he began to 
resume his spirits 'when he thought himself in a sit- 
uation to discharge it." — Gilpin's Lives of the Re- 
formers, p. 358. 

" Some of his friends found him taking a hearty 
supper the night before his execution, and express- 
ing their surprise, he told them he was but doing 
what they had daily examples of in common life ; 
he was only keeping his cottage in repair while he 
eontinued to inhabit it." The same composure 
ran through his whole behaviour, and his conver- 
sation was more agreeable that evening than they 
had ever remembered it to be. 



RELIGIOK THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 23^ 

Some of his friends put him in mind " that 
though the fire which he should suffer the next day 
should be of great heat unto his body, yet the com- 
fort of God's Spirit should coole it to his everlast- 
ing refreshing." At this word the said Thomas 
Bilney putting his hand toward the flame of the can- 
dle burning before them, (as he also did divers 
times besides,) and feeling the heat thereof, " Oh !" 
said he, " I feel by experience, and have knowne 
it long by philosophic, that fire by God's ordinance 
is naturally hot, but yet I am persuaded, by God's 
holy word, and by the experience of some spoken 
of in the same, that in the flame they felt no heate, 
and in the fire they felt no consumption : and I 
constantly believe that, howsoever the stubble of 
this my bodie shall be wasted by it, yet my soule 
and spirit shall be purged thereby ; a paine for the 
time, whereon, notwithstanding, followeth joy un- 
speakable." He then dwelt much upon a passage 
in Isaiah. " Fear not, for I have redeemed thee, 
and called thee by thy name. Thou art mine own ; 
when thou passest through the waters, I will be 
thee ; when thou walkest in the fire, it shall not 
burn thee, and the flame shall not kindle upon thee ; 
for I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Is- 
rael." 

" He was led to the place of execution* without 



* " In the Lollard's pit, I find that many persons of a sect, 
known by the name of Lollards, in the city of Norwich, were 
thrown, after being burnt, in the year 1424, and for many years 
afterwards ; and thence it was called the Lollard's pit : and 
the following account of the meaning of the term Lollard may 
not be unacceptable. Soon alter the commencement of the 14th 
century, the famous sect of the Cellite brethren and sisters 
arose at Antwerp : they were also styled the Alexian brethren 
and sisters, because St. Alexius was their patron ; and they 
were named Cellites, from the cells in which they were accns- 



238 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the citie gate, called Bishop's gate, in a low valley, 
commonly called the Lollard's pit, under Saint 
Leonard's hill." At the coming forth of the said 
Thomas Bilney out of the prison doore, one of his 
friends came to him, and with few words as he 
durst, spake to him, and prayed him, in God's be- 
half, to be constant, and to take his death as patient- 
ly as he could. Whereunto the said Bilney an- 
swered with a quiet and mild countenance, " ye 
see when the mariner is entered his ship to saile on 
the troublous sea, how he is for a while tossed in 
the billows of the same, but yet in hope that he 
shall come to the quiet haven, he beareth in better 
comfort the perils which he feeleth ; so am I now 
toward this sayling ; and whatsoever stormes I shall 
feele, yet shortly after shall my ship be in the ha- 
ven, as I doubt not thereof, by the grace of God, 



tomed to live. As the clergy of this age took little care of the 
sick and the dying, and deserted such as were infected with 
those pestilential disorders which were then very frequent, some 
compassionate and pious persons at Antwerp formed themselves 
into a society for the performance of those religious offices 
which the sacerdotal orders so shamefully neglected. In the 
prosecution of this agreement, they visited and comforted the 
sick, assisted the dying with their prayers and exhortations, 
took care of the interment of those who were cut off by the 
plague, and on that account forsaken by the terrified clergy, and 
committed them to the grave with a solemn funeral dirge. It 
was with leference to this last office that the common people 
gave them the name of Lollards. The term Lollhard, or Lull- 
hard, or as the ancients Germans wrote it, Loliert, Lullert, is 
compounded of the old German word lullen, lollan, lallen, and 
the well-known termination of hard, with which many of the old 
High Dutch words end. Lollen, or Lullen, signifies to sing with 
a low voice. It is yet used in the same sense among the English, 
who say lulla sleep, which signifies to sing any one into a 
slumber with a sweet indistinct voice. 

" Lollhard, therefore, is a singer, or one who frequently 
sings. - For, as the word beggen, which universally signifies to 
request any thing fervently, is applied to devotional requests, 
or prajers, so the word lollen or lallen is transferred from a 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 239 

desiring you to helpe me with your prayers to the 
same effect." 

While he kneeled upon a little ledge coming out 
of the stake, upon which he was afterwards to stand, 
that he might be better seen, be made his private 
prayers with such earnest elevation of his eyes and 
hands to heaven, " and in so good quiet behaviour, 
that he seemed not much to consider the terror of 
his death," ending his prayer with the 43d psalm, 
in which he repeated this verse thrice, " Enter not 
into judgment with thy servant, O Lord ! for in thy 
sight shall no man living be justified ;" and so fin- 
ishing the psalm, he concluded. "Nor did that 
God in whom he trusted forsake him in the hour of 
his need ; while the flames raged around him, he 
held up his hands and knocked upon his breast, 
crying, "Jesus," and sometimes " Credo," till he 
gave up the ghost, and his body being withered, 
bowed downward upon the chaine, " while, tri- 



common to a sacred song, and signifies, in its most limited sense, 
to sing a hymn. Lollhard, therefore, in the vulgar tongue of 
the ancient Germans, denotes a person who is continually prais- 
ing God with a song, or singing hymns to his honour. 

" And as prayers and hymns are regarded as an external sign 
of piety towards God, those who were more frequently employ- 
ed in singing hymns of praise to God than others, were, in the 
common popular language, called Lollhards." 

" But the priests, and monks, being inveterately exasperated 
against these good men, endeavoured to persuade the people 
that, innocent and beneficent as the Lollards appeared to be, 
they were tainted with the most pernicious sentiments of a re- 
ligious kind,and secretly addicted to all sorts of vices ; hence the 
name of Lollard at length became infamous. Thus, by degrees, 
it came to pass, that any person who covered heresies, or crimes, 
under the appearance of piety, was called a Lollard, so that 
this was not a name to denote any one particular sect, but was 
formerly common to all persons, and all sects, who were suppos- 
ed to be guilty of impiety towards God, and the church, under 
an external profession of extraordinary piety." — Maclane's 
Eccles. History, p. 355 — 56. 



240 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

umphing over death, (to use the words of the poet 
laureate) " he rendered up his soul in the fulness of 
faith, and entered into his reward." 

" So exemplary," says Bloomfield, in his Histo- 
ry of Norwich, " was Bilney's life and conversa- 
tion, that when Nixe, his persecutor, was constant- 
ly told how holy and upright he was, he said he 
feared that he had burnt Abel." 

I have recently visited the Lollard's pit : that 
spot where my interesting martyred countryman 
met his dreadful death. The top of the hill retains, 
probably, much the same appearance as it had when 
he perished at its foot ; and, without any great ex- 
ertion of fancy, it would have been easy for me to 
figure to myself the rest of the scene, could I have 
derived sufficient comfort from the remembrance of 
the fortitude with which he bore his sufferings, to 
reconcile me to the contemplation of them. Still, 
it is, I believe, salutary to visit the places hallowed 
in the memory, as marked by any exhibition of vir- 
tuous acts and sufferings endured for the sake of 
conscience. To the scaffold, and to the stake, on 
account of their religious opinions, it is humbly to 
be hoped that Christians will never again be 
brought. But all persecution, on the score of re- 
ligion, is, in a degree, an infliction of martyrdom on 
the mind and on the heart. It matters not that we 
forbear to kill the body of the Christian, if we 
afflict the soul by aught of a persecuting spirit. 

Yet does not our daily experience testify, that 
there is nothing which calls forth petty persecutions, 
and the mean warfare of a detracting spirit, so 
much as any marked religious profession ? 

And while such a profession is assailed, by ridi- 
cule on the one hand, by distrust of its motives on 
the other ; while it exposes the serious Christian, 



BELLGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 241 

converted from the errors of former days, to the 
stigma of wild enthusiasm, or of religious hypocri- 
sy ; who shall say that the persecuting spirit of the 
Lauds and the Bonners is not still the spirit of the 
world ? Who shall say to the tried and shrinking 
souls of those who, on account of their having made 
a religious profession, are thus calumniated, and 
thus judged, the time of martyrdom is over, and 
we live in mild, and liberal, and truly Christian 
days ? 

Such were the thoughts uppermost in my mind, 
while I stood, perhaps, on the very spot where 
Bilney suffered, and where Bilney died ; and 
though I rejoiced to see that the harmless employ- 
ment of the lime-burner had succeeded to the fright- 
ful burning of the human form, I could not but sigh 
as I turned away, while I remembered that so much 
of an intolerant, uncandid spirit still prevailed 
amongst professed Christians, and, that the prac- 
tice of persecution still existed, though applied in a 
very different manner. I could not but think, that 
many of the present generation might do well to 
visit scenes thus fraught with the recollection of 
martyrdom. If it be true that " our love of free- 
dom would burn brighter on the plains of Mara- 
thon," and that our devotion " must glow more 
warmly amidst the ruins of lona, sure am I that the 
places where the martyrs for conscience' sake have 
passed through the portals of fire and agony to their 
God, must assist in bestowing on us power to en- 
dure with fortitude the mental martyrdom which 
may, unexpectedly, become our portion in life ; and 
by recalling the sufferings of others, we may, meek- 
ly bowing to the hand that afflicts us for good, be 
in time, enabled to bear, and even to love, our own. 
21 



242 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

The last, and third, on my list, is Thomas 
Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was pro- 
moted to that See by the favour of Henry the 
Eighth, and degraded from it in consequence of his 
heretical opinions, by virtue of an order from the 
sovereign pontiff, in the reign of Queen Mary. 
" The ceremony of his degradation," says Gilpin, 
which took place at Oxford, " was performed by 
Thirlby, Bishop of Ely, a man recently converted, 
it should seem, to Catholicism ; who, in Cranmer's 
better days, had been honoured with his particular 
friendship, and owed him many obligations. 

As this man, therefore, had long been so much 
attached to the Archbishop, it was thought proper 
by his new friends that he should give an extraor- 
dinary test of his zeal ; for this reason the ceremo- 
ny of his degradation was committed to him. He 
had undertaken, however, too hard a task. The 
mild benevolence of the primate, which shone forth 
With great dignity, though he stood in the mock 
grandeur of canvas robes, struck the old apostate 
'to the heart. All the past came throbbing to his 
breast, and a few repentant tears began to trickle 
down the furrows of his aged cheek. The Arch- 
bishop gently exhorted him not to suffer his private 
to overpower his public affections. At length, one 
by one, the canvas trappings were taken off, amidst 
the taunts and exultations of Bonner, bishop of 
London, w T ho was present at the ceremony. 

Thus degraded, he was attired in a plain freize 
gown, the common habit of a yeoman at that peri- 
od, and had what was then called a townsman's caj> 
put upon his head. In this garb he was carried 
back to prison, Bonner crying after him, " He is 
now no longer my Lord ! he is now no longer my 
Lord !" — Gilpin's Lives of the Reformers. 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 243 

I know not what were Cranmer's feelings at 
these expressions of mean exultation from the con- 
temptible Bonner ; but, I trust that he treated them, 
and the ceremony of degradation at the time, with 
the indifference which they merited. Perhaps, 
too, he might utter within himself, this serious and 
important truth, that none of us can ever be truly 
degraded, but by ourselves alone ; and this mo- 
ment of his external humiliation was, in the eyes of 
all whose esteem was worth having, one of triumph 
and honour to the bereaved ecclesiastick. But 
what, alas ! were those which succeeded to it ? 
That period, and that alone, was the period of his- 
real degradation, when, overcome by the flatteries 
and the kindness of his real and seeming friends, 
and subdued by the entertainments given him, the 
amusements offered him, and, allowed to indulge in 
the " lust of the eye, and the pride of life," he was 
induced to lend a willing ear to the proposal of be- 
ing reinstated in his former dignity, on condition 
that he would conform to the present change of re- 
ligion, and " gratify the queen by being wholly a 
catholic !" 

The adversary of man lured Cranmer, as well as 
Bilney, by the unsuspected influence of mild and 
amiable feelings, rather than the instigations of fear ; 
and he who was armed to resist, to the utmost, the 
rage and malice of his enemies, was drawn aside 
from truth and duty by the suggestions of false 
friends. 

After the confinement of a full year in the 
gloomy walls of a prison, his sudden return into 
social intercourse dissipated his firm resolves. 
That love of life returned, which he had hitherto 
conquered ; and when a paper was offered to him, 
importing his assent to the tenets of popery, his 



244 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

better resolutions gave way, and in an evil hour he 
signed the fatal scroll ! 

Cranmer's recantation was received by the po- 
pish party with joy beyond expression ; but, as all 
they wanted was to blast the reputation of a man, 
whose talents, learning, and virtue, were of such 
great importance to the cause which he espoused, 
they had no sooner gained what they desired, than 
their thirst for his blood returned, and though he 
was kept in ignorance of the fate which awaited 
him, a warrant was ordered for his execution with 
all possible expedition. 

But long before the certainty of his approaching 
fate was made known to him, the self-convicted 
culprit sighed for the joy and the serenity which 
usually attend the last days of a martyr for the truth 
which he loves. 

Vainly did his friends throw over his faults the 
balm afforded by those healing words, " the spirit 
was willing, but the flesh was weak." In his own 
clear judgment he was hlly convicted, while his 
days were passed in horror and remorse, and his 
nights in sleepless anguish. 

To persevere in his recantation was an insup- 
portable thought ; but, to retract it was scarcely 
within the verge of possibility ; but he was allowed 
an opportunity of doing so which he did not expect, 
and though death was the means of it, he felt thanks 
ful that it was afforded him, and deemed his life a 
sacrifice not to be regarded for the attainment of 
such an object. 

When Dr. Cole, one of the heads of the popish 
party, came to him on the twentieth of March, the 
evening preceding his intended execution, and in- 
sinuated to him his approaching fate, he spent the 
remaining part of the evening in drawing up a full 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 245 

confession of his apostacy, and of his bitter repent- 
ance, wishing to take the best opportunity to speak 
or publish it, which he supposed would be afforded 
him when he was carried to the stake ; but, beyond 
his expectation, a better was provided for him. It 
was intended that he should be conveyed immedi- 
ately from his prison to the place of his execution, 
where a sermon was to be preached ; but, as the 
morning of the appointed day was wet and stormy, 
the ceremony was performed under cover. 

About nine o'clock, the Lord Williams of Thame, 
attended by the magistrates of Oxford, received him 
at the prison gate, and conveyed him to St. Mary's 
church, where he found a crowded audience await- 
ing him, and was conducted to an elevated place, 
in public view, opposite to the pulpit. If ever there 
was a broken and a contrite heart before God and 
man ; if ever there was a person humbled in the 
very depths of his soul, from the consciousness of 
having committed sin, and of having deserved the 
extreme of earthly shame and earthly suffering 5 
that man was Cranmer ! 

He is represented as standing against a pillar, 
pale as the stone against which he leaned. " It is 
doleful," says a popish, but impartial, spectator, 
" to describe his behaviour during the sermon, part 
of which was addressed to him ; his sorrowful 
countenance ; his heavy cheer, his face bedewed 
with tears ; sometimes lifting up his eyes to heaven 
in hope ; sometimes casting them down to the earth 
for shame. To be brief, he was an image of sor- 
row. The dolour of his heart burst out continual- 
ly from his eyes in gushes of tears : yet he retain- 
ed ever a quiet and grave behaviour, which increas- 
ed pity in men's hearts, who unfeignedlv loved him, 
21* 



246 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 



hoping that it had been his repentance for his trans- 
gressions." And so it was ; though not for what 
many considered his transgressions ; but it was the 
deep contrition of a converted heart, and of a sub- 
dued and penitent soul, prepared by the depth of 
human degradation and humility, to rise on the 
wings of angels, and meet in another world its be- 
loved and blessed Redeemer. 

The preacher having concluded his sermon, turn- 
ed round to the audience, and desired all who were 
present to join with him in silent prayers for the un- 
happy man before them. A solemn stillness ensu- 
ed ; every eye and heart were instantly lifted up to 
heaven. Some minutes having been passed in this 
affecting manner, the degraded primate, who had 
also fallen on his knees, arose in all the dignity of 
sorrow, accompanied by conscious penitence and 
Christian reliance, and thus addressed his audience. 
" I had myself intended to desire your prayers. 
My desires have been anticipated, and I return you 
all that a dying man can give, my sincerest thanks. 
To your prayers for me, let me add my own ! 
Good Christian people !" continued he, " my dear- 
ly beloved brethren and sisters in Christ, I beseech 
you most heartily, to pray for me to Almighty God, 
that he will forgive me all my sins and offences, 
which are many, without number, and great beyond 
measure. But one thing grieveth my conscience 
more than all the rest ; whereof, God willing, I 
mean to speak hereafter. But, how great and how 
many soever my sinnes be, I beseech you to pray 
God, of his mercy, to pardon and forgive them all." 
He then knelt down and offered up a prayer as full 
of pathos as of eloquence ; then he took a paper 
from his bosom, and read it aloud, which was to the 
following effect. 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 247 

" It is now, my brethren, no time to dissemble 
— I stand upon the verge of life — a vast eternity 
before me — what my fears are, or what my hopes, 
it matters not here to unfold. For one action of 
my life, at least, I am accountable to the world. 
My late shameful subscription to opinions, which 
are wholly opposite to my real sentiments. Before 
this congregation 1 solemnly declare, that the fear 
of death alone induced me to this ignominious ac- 
tion — that it hath cost me many bitter tears — that, 
in my heart, I totally reject the Pope, and doc- 
trines of the church of Rome, and that" — 

As he was continuing his speech, the whole as- 
sembly was in an uproar. " Stop the audacious 
heretic," cried Lord Williams of Thame. On 
which several priests and friars, rushing from dif- 
ferent parts of the church, seized, or pulled him 
from his seat, dragged him into the street, and, 
with indecent precipitation, hurried him to the 
stake, which was already prepared. 

As he stood with all the horrid apparatus of death 
around him, amidst taunts, revilings, and execra- 
tions, he alone maintained a dispassionate behaviour. 
Having discharged his conscience, he seemed to 
feel, even in his awful circumstances, an inward sat- 
isfaction, to which he had long been a stranger. 
His countenance was not fixed, as before, in sorrow 
on the ground ; but he looked round him with eyes 
full of sweetness and benignity, as if at peace with 
all the world." 

Who can contemplate the conduct of Cranmer, 
in the affecting scene that followed, without feeling 
a deep conviction of the intensity of his penitence 
for the degrading lie, of which he had been guilty ! 
and who can fad to think that Cranmer, in his 
proudest days, when the favourite, the friend, the 



248 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

counsellor of a king, and bearing the highest eccle- 
siastical rank in the country, was far inferior in real 
dignity and real consequence to Cranmer, when, 
prostrate in soul before his offended, yet pardoning 
God, but erect and fearless before his vindictive 
enemies, he thrust the hand, with which he had 
signed the lying scroll of his recantations, into the 
fast-rising flames, crying out, as he did so, " this 
hand hath offended ! this hand hath offended !" 

It is soothing to reflect, that his sufferings were 
quickly over ; for, as the fire rose fiercely round 
him, he was involved in a thick smoke, and it was 
supposed that he died very soon. 

" Surely," says the writer before quoted, " his 
death grieved every one : his friends sorrowed for 
love ; his enemies for pity ; and strangers through 
humanity." 

To us of these latter days, his crime and his pen- 
itence afford an awful warning, and an instructive 
example. 

The former proves how vain are talents, learn- 
ing, and even exalted virtues, to preserve us in the 
path of rectitude, unless we are watchful unto 
prayer, and unless, wisely distrustful of our own 
strength, we wholly and confidently lean upon 
" that rock, which is higher than we are." And 
the manner in which he was enabled to declare his 
penitence and contrition for his falsehood and apos- 
tacy, and to bear the tortures which attended on his 
dying hours, is a soothing and comforting evidence, 
that sinners, who prostrate themselves with contrite 
hearts before the throne of their God, and their 
Redeemer, " he will in no wise cast out," but will 
know his Almighty arm to be round about them, 
" till death is swallowed up in victory." 

It is with a degree of fearfulness and awe, that I 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 249 

take my fourth example from one who, relying too 
much on his own human strength, in his hour of 
human trial, was permitted to fall into the commis- 
sion of human frailty, and to utter the most decided 
and ungrateful of falsehoods ; since he that thus 
erred was no less a person than the apostle Peter 
himself, who, by a thrice-told lie, denied his Lord 
and Master' ; but who, by his bitter tearful repent- 
ance, and by his subsequent faithfulness unto death, 
redeemed, in the eyes both of his Saviour and of 
men, his short-lived frailty, and proved himself 
worthy of that marked confidence in his active zeal, 
which was manifested by our great Redeemer, in 
his parting words. 

The character of Peter affords us a warning, as 
well as an example, while the affectionate reproofs 
of the Saviour, together with the tender encourage- 
ment, and generous praise, which he bestowed up- 
on him, prove to us, in a manner the most cheering 
and indisputable, how merciful are the dealings of 
the Almighty with his sinful creatures ; how ready 
he is to overlook our offences, and to dwell with 
complacency on our virtues ; and that " he willeth 
not the death of a sinner, but had rather that he 
should turn from his wickedness and live." 

Self-confidence, and self-righteousness, proceed- 
ing perhaps from his belief in the superior depth 
and strength of his faith in Christ, seem to have 
been the besetting sins of Peter ; and that his faith 
was lively and sincere, is sufficiently evidenced by 
his unhesitating reply to the questions of his Lord : 
" Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God !" 
A reply so satisfactory to the great Being whom he 
addressed, that he answered him, saying, " Bless- 
ed art thou, Simon Barjona ; for flesh and blood 
have not revealed it unto thee, but my Father 



250 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

which is in Heaven : and I say unto thee, that thou 
art Peter ; and upon this rock will I build my 
church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail 
against it." 

It seems as if Peter became, from this assurance, 
so confident in his own strength, that he neglected 
to follow his master's injunction, " Watch and 
pray, lest ye enter into temptation ;" and therefore 
became an easy victim to the first temptation which 
beset him : for soon after, with surprising confi- 
dence in his own wisdom, we find him rebuking his 
Lord, and asserting, that the things which he proph- 
ecied concerning himself should not happen unto 
him. On which occasion, the Saviour says, ad- 
dressing the adversary of Peter's soul, then power- 
ful within him, " Get thee behind me, Satan ! thou 
art an offence to me !" His want of implicit faith 
on this occasion was the more remarkable, because 
he had just before uttered that strong avowal of his 
confidence in Christ, to which I have already al- 
luded. 

In an early part of the history of the Gospel we 
read that Peter, beholding the miraculous draught 
of fishes, fell on his knees, and exclaimed, in the 
fulness of surprise and admiration, and in the depth 
of conscious sinfulness and humility, " Depart from 
me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord !" 

On a subsequent occasion, ever eager as he was 
to give assurances of what he believed to be his 
undoubting faith, we find him saying to the Saviour, 
when he had removed the terror of his disciples at 
seeing him walking on the sea, by those cheering 
words, " It is I, be not afraid !" — " Lord ! if it be 
thou, bid me come to thee on the water !" — And 
he walked on the water to come to Jesus ; 
but, when he saw the wind boisterous, he was 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 251 

again afraid, and beginning to sink, he cried, say- 
ing, " Lord, save me !" Immediately, Jesus 
stretched forth his hand and caught him, saying 
unto him, " O thou of little faith, wherefore didst 
thou doubt ?" The first of these facts shows the 
great sensibility of his nature, and hi sexemplary 
aptitude to acknowledge and admire every proof of 
the power and goodness of his Redeemer : and 
the second is a further corroborating instance of his 
eager confidence in his own courage and belief, 
followed by its accustomed falling off in the hour of 
trial. 

His unsubmitted and self-confident spirit shows 
itself again in his declaration, that Christ should not 
wash his feet ; as if he still set his human wisdom 
against that of the Redeemer, till, subdued by the 
Saviour's reply, he exclaims, " not my feet only, 
but also my hands and my head." 

The next instance of the mixed character of 
Peter, and of the solicitude which it excited in our 
Saviour, is exhibited by the following address to 
him, " And the Lord said, Simon, Simon, be- 
hold ! Satan hath desired to have thee, that he may 
sift thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee, 
(added the gracious Jesus,) that thy faith fail not ; 
and when thou art converted, strengthen thy breth- 
ren." Peter replied, in the fulness of self-confi- 
dence, " Lord, I am ready to go with thee into pris- 
on, and unto death !" And he said, " I tell thee, 
Peter, that before the cock crows, thou shalt deny 
me thrice." It does not appear what visible effect 
this humiliating prophecy had on him to whom it 
was addressed, though Matthew says that he repli- 
ed, " though I should die with thee, still I will not 
deny thee ; but it is probable that, by drawing his 
sword openly in his defenGe, when they came out 



252 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" with swords and with staves to take him," he 
hoped to convince his Lord of his fidelity. But 
this action was little better than one of mere physi- 
cal courage, the result of sudden excitement at the 
time ; and was consistent with that want of moral 
courage, that most difficult courage of all, which 
led him, when the feelings of the moment had sub- 
sided, to deny his master, and to utter the degrad- 
ing lie of fear. After he had thus sinned, the Lord 
turned and looked upon Peter ; and Peter remem- 
bered the words of the Lord, how he had said unto 
him, " Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me 
thrice. And Peter went out, and wept bitterly. M 

It seems as if that self-confidence, that blind 
trusting in one's own strength, that tendency which 
we all have to believe, like Hazael, that we can 
never fall into certain sins, and yield to certain 
temptations, was conquered, for a while, in the 
humbled, self-judged, and penitent apostle. Per- 
haps the look of mild reproach which the Saviour 
gave him was long present to his view, and that, in 
moments of subsequent danger to his truth, those 
eyes seemed again to admonish him, and those holy 
lips to utter the salutary and saving precept, 
" watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation." 

Nevertheless, rendered too confident, probably, 
in his own unassisted strength, we find him sinning 
once more in the same way ; namely, from fear of 
man ; for, being convinced that the Mosaic law was 
no longer binding on the conscience, he ate and 
drank freely at Antioch with the Gentiles ; but, 
when certain Jewish converts were sent to him 
from the apostle James, he separated from the Gen- 
tiles, lest he should incur the censure of the Jews ; 
being thus guilty of a sort of practical lie, and set- 
ting those Jews, as it proved, a most pernicious ex- 



RELIGION TflE BASIS OF TRU^H. 253 

ample of dissimulation ; for which disingenuous 
conduct, the apostle Paul publicly and justly reprov- 
ed him before the whole Church. But, as there is 
no record of any reply given by Peter, it is proba- 
ble that he bore the rebuke meekly ; humbled, no 
doubt, in spirit, before the great Being whom he 
had again offended ; and not only does it seem 
likely that he met this public humiliation with silent 
and Christian forbearance, but, in his last Epistle, 
he speaks of Paul, " as his beloved brother," gen- 
erously bearing his powerful testimony to the wis- 
dom contained in his Epistles, and warning the 
hearers of Paul against rejecting aught in them 
which, from want of learning, they may not under- 
stand, and " therefore wrest them, as the unlearn- 
ed and unstable do also the other Scriptures, to 
their own destruction." 

The closing scene of this most interesting apos- 
tle's life, we have had no means of contemplating, 
though the Saviour's last affecting and pathetic 
address to him, in which he prophecies that he will 
die a martyr in his cause, makes one particularly 
desirous to procure details of it. 

" So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon 
Peter, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more 
than these V He saith unto him, ' Yea, Lord, 
thou knowest that I love thee.' He saith unto him, 
' Feed my lambs !' He saith unto him again the 
second time, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou 
me ?' He saith unto him, ' Yea, Lord ! thou 
knowest that I love thee.' He saith unto him 
' feed my sheep !' He saith unto him the third 
time, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me ?' 
Peter was grieved because he said unto him the 
third time, Lovest thou me f and he said unto him, 
22 



254 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

' Lord, thou knowest that I love thee.' Jesus saith 
unto him, ' Feed my sheep. Verily, verily, I say 
unto thee, when thou wast young, thou girdedst 
thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest ; but 
when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy 
hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee 
whither thou wouldest not.' This spake he, signi- 
fying by what death he should glorify God ; and 
when he had spoken this he saith unto him, follow 
me!" 

" The case of Peter,'' says the pious and learn- 
ed Scott, in his Notes to the Gospel of John, " re- 
quired a more particular address than that of the 
other apostles, in order that both he and others 
might derive the greater benefit from his fall and 
his recovery. Our Lord, therefore, asked him by 
his original name, as if he had forfeited that of 
peter by his instability, whether he loved him more 
than these. The latter clause might be interpret- 
ed of his employment and gains as a fisherman, 
and be considered as a demand whether he loved 
Jesus above his secular interests ; but Peter's an- 
swer determines us to another interpretation. He 
had, before his fall, in effect, said that he loved his 
Lord more than the other disciples did ; for he had 
boasted that, though all men should forsake him, 
yet would not he. Jesus now asked him whether 
he would stand to this, and aver that he loved him 
more than the others did. To this he answered 
modestly by saying, " thou knowest that I love 
thee," without professing to love him more than 
others. Our Lord, therefore, renewed his appoint- 
ment to the ministerial and apostolical office ; at 
the same time commanding him to feed his lambs, 
or his little lambs, even the least of them ; for the 
word is diminutive ; this intimated to him that his 



RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 255 

3ate experience of his own weakness ought to ren- 
der him peculiarly condescending, complaisant, 
tender, and attentive to the meanest and feeblest 
believers. As Peter had thrice denied Christ, so 
he was pleased to repeat the same question a third 
time : this grieved Peter, as it reminded him that 
he had given sufficient cause for being thus repeat- 
edly questioned concerning the sincerity of his love 
to his Lord. Conscious, however, of his integrity, 
he more solemnly appealed to Christ, as knowing 
all things, even the secrets of his heart, that he 
knew he loved him with cordial affection, notwith- 
standing the inconsistency of his late behaviour. 
Our Lord thus tacitly allowed the truth of his pro- 
fession, and renewed his charge to him to feed his 
sheep." 

" Peter," continues the commentator, " had 
earnestly professed his readiness to die with Christ, 
yet had shamefully failed when put to the trial; but 
our Lord next assured him that he would at length 
be called on to perform that engagement, and sig- 
nified the death by which he would, as a martyr for 
his truth, glorify God." No doubt that this infor- 
mation, however awful, was gratefully received by 
the devoted, ardent, though, at times, the unstable, 
follower of his beloved Master ; as it proved the 
Saviour's confidence in him, notwithstanding all his 
errors. 

There was, indeed, an energy of character in 
Peter, which fitted him to be an apostle and a 
martyr. He was the questioning, the observing, 
the conversing, disciple. The others were probably 
withheld by timidity from talking with their Lord, 
and putting frequent questions to him ; but Peter 
was the willing spokesman on all occasions ; and to 
him we owe that impressive lesson afforded us by 



256 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the Saviour's reply, when asked by him how often 
he was to forgive an offending brother, " I say not 
unto thee until seven times, but unto seventy times 
seven." 

But, whether we contemplate Peter as an exam- 
ple, or as a warning, in the early part of his re- 
ligious career, it is cheering and instructive, indeed, 
to acquaint ourselves with him in his writings, when 
he approached the painful and awful close of it. 
When, having been enabled to fight a good fight, in 
fulfilment of his blessed Lord's prayer, that " his 
faith might not fail ;" and having been " converted 
himself," and having strengthened his brethren, he 
addressed his last awfully impressive Epistle to his 
Christian brethren, before he himself was summoned 
to that awful trial, after which he was to receive 
the end of " his faith," even " the salvation of his 
soul !" Who can read, without trembling awe, his 
eloquent description of the day of judgment; "that 
day," which, as he says, " will come like a thief in 
the night, in the which the heavens shall pass away 
with a great noise, and the elements shall melt With 
fervent heat ; and the works that are therein shall 
be burned up," while he adds this impressive les- 
son, " seeing then that all these things shall be dis- 
solved, what manner of persons ought ye to be m 
all holy conversation and godliness ?" And who 
c > contemplate, without affectionate admiration, 
the undoubting, but unfearing, certainty with which 
he spe Jks of his approaching death, as foretold by 
our Lord ; " knowing," said he, " that shortly I 
must put off* this my tabernacle, even as our Lord 
Jesus Christ has showed us ?" 

Soon after he had thus written, it is probable that 
he repaired to the expected scene of his suffering, 
-and met his doom — met it, undoubtedly, as became 



Religion the basis of truth. 257 

one taught by experience, to know his own recur- 
ring weakness, admonished often by the remem- 
brance of that eye which had once beamed in mild 
reproof upon him ; but which, I doubt not, he be- 
held in the hour of his last trial and dying agonies, 
fixed upon him with tender encouragement and ap- 
proving love ; while, in his closing ear, seemed 
once again to sound the welcome promised to the 
devoted follower of the cross, " well done, good 
and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy 
Lord." 

We, of these latter days, can see the founder of 
our religion only in the record of his word, and 
hear him only in his ever-enduring precepts ; but, 
though we hear him not externally with our ears, 
he still speaks in the heart of us all, if we will but 
listen to his purifying voice ; and though the look 
of his reproachful eye can be beheld by us only 
with our mental vision, still, that eye is continually 
over us ; and when, like the apostle, we are tempt- 
ed to feel too great security in our own strength, 
and to neglect to implore the assistance which com- 
eth from above, let us recal the look which Jesus 
gave to the offending Peter, and remember that the 
same eye, although unseen, is watching and regard- 
ing us still. 

Oh ! could we ever lie even upon what are call- 
ed trifling occasions, if we once believed the cer 
tain, however disregarded, truth, that the Lord 
takes cognizance of every species of falsehood, and 
that the eye, which looked the apostle into shame 
and agonizing contrition, beholds our lying lips with 
the same indignation with which it reproved him, 
reminding us that " all liars shall have their part 
in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone," 
22* 



258 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

and that without the city of, life is " whosoever 
kweth and maketh a lie." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

I shall not give many individual instances of 
those whom even the fear of death has not been 
able to terrify into, falsehood, because they were 
supported in their integrity by the fear of God ; but 
such facts are on record. The history of the prim- 
itive Christians contains many examples both of 
men and women whom neither threats nor bribes 
could induce for a moment to withhold or falsify 
the truth, or to conceal their newly-embraced opin- 
ions, though certain that torture and death would 
be the consequence ; fearless and determined be- 
ings, who, though their rulers, averse to punish 
them, would gladly have allowed their change to 
pass unnoticed, persisted, like the prophet Daniel, 
openly to display the faith that was in them, ex- 
claiming at every interrogatory, and in the midst of 
tortures and of death, " we are Christians ; we are 
Christians !" Some martyrs of more modern days, 
Catholics, as well as Protestants, have borne the 
same unshaken testimony to what they believed to 
be religious truth ; but Latimer, more especially, 
was so famous amongst the latter, not only for the 
pureness of his life, but for the sincerity and good- 
ness of his evangelical doctrine ; (which, since the 
beginning of his preaching, had, in all points been 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 259 

conformable to the teaching of Christ and of his 
apostles,) that the very adversaries of God's truth, 
with all their menacing words and cruel imprison- 
ment, could not withdraw him from it. But, what- 
soever he had once preached, he valiantly defended 
the same before the world, without fear of any mor- 
tal creature, although of never so great power and 
high authority ; wishing and minding rather to suf- 
fer not only loss of worldly possessions, but of life, 
than that the glory of God, and the truth of Christ's 
Gospel should in any point be obscured or defaced 
through him." Thus this eminent person exhibit- 
ed a striking contrast to that fear of man, which is 
the root of all lying, and all dissimulation ; . that 
mean, grovelling, and pernicious fear, which every 
day is leading us either to disguise or withhold our 
real opinion ; if not, to be absolutely guilty of ut- 
tering falsehood, and which induces us but too of- 
ten, to remain silent, and ineffective, even when the 
oppressed and the insulted require us to speak in 
their defence, and when the cause of truth, and of 
righteousness, is injured by our silence. The ear_ 
ly Friends were exemplary instances of the pow 
er of faith to lift the Christian above all fear of 
man ; and not only George Fox himself, but many 
of his humblest followers, were known to be per- 
sons " who would rather have died than spoken a 
lie." 

There was one female Friend amongst others, 
of the name of Mary Dyar, who, after undergoing 
some persecution for the sake of her religious 
tenets at Boston, in America, was led to the gal- 
lows between two young men, condemned, like 
herself, to suffer for conscience' sake ; but, having 
seen them executed, she was reprieved, carried 
back to prison, and then, being discharged, was 



260 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

permitted to go to another part of the country - 7 
but, apprehending it to be her duty to return to 
" the bloody town of Boston," she was summoned 
before the general court. On her appearance 
there, the governor, John Endicott, said, " Are 
you the same Mary Dyar that was here before ?" 
And it seems he was preparing an evasion for her ; 
there having been another of that name returned 
from Old England. But she was so far from dis- 
guising the truth, that she answered undauntedly, 
" I am the same Mary Dyar that was here the last 
general court" The consequence was immediate 
imprisonment ; and, soon after, death. 

But the following narrative, which, like the pre- 
ceding one, is recorded in Sewell's History of the 
people called Quakers, bears so directly on the 
point in question, that I am tempted to give it to my 
readers in all its details. 

" About the fore part of this year, if I mistake 
not, there happened a case at Edmond's-Bury, 
which I cannot well pass by in silence ; viz. a cer- 
tain young woman was committed to prison for child- 
murder. Whilst she was in jail, it is said, William 
Bennet, a prisoner for conscience' sake, came to 
her, and in discourse asked her whether, during the 
course of her life, she had not many times transgress- 
ed against her conscience ? and whether she had 
not often thereupon felt secret checks and inward 
reproofs, and been troubled in her mind because of 
the evil committed ; and this he did in such a con- 
vincing way, that she not only assented to what he 
laid before her, but his discourse so reached her 
heart, that she came clearly to see, that if she had 
not been so stubborn and disobedient to those in- 
ward reproofs, in all probability she would not have 
come to such a miserable fall as she now bad ; for 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 261 

man, riot desiring the knowledge of God's ways, 
and departing from him, is left helpless, and cannot 
keep himself from evil, though it may be such as 
formerly he would have abhorred in the highest de- 
gree, and have said with Hazael, " what ! is thy 
servant a dog, that he should do this great thing ?" 
W. Bennetthus opening matters to her, did, by his 
wholesome admonition, so work upon her mind, 
that she, who never had conversed with the Quak- 
ers, and was altogether ignorant of their doctrine, 
now came to apprehend that it was the grace of 
God that brings salvation, which she so often had 
withstood, and that this grace had not yet quite for- 
saken her, but now make her sensible of the great- 
ness of her transgression. This consideration 
wrought so powerfully, that, from a most grievous 
sinner, she became a true penitent; and with hearty 
sorrow she cried unto the Lord, " that it might 
please him not to hide his countenance." And 
continuing in this state of humiliation and sincere 
repentance, and persevering in supplication, she 
felt, in time, ease ; and, giving heed to the exhor- 
tations of the said Bennet, she obtained, at length, 
to a sure hope of forgiveness by the precious blood 
of the immaculate Lamb, who died for the sins of 
the world. Of this she gave manifest proofs at her 
trial before Judge Matthew Hale, who, having heard 
how penitent she was, would fain have spared her ; 
she being asked, according to the form, "guilty or 
not guilty V readily answered, "guilty." This 
astonished the judge, and therefore he told her that 
she seemed not duly to consider what she said, 
since it could not well be believed that such a one 
as she, who, it may be, inconsiderately, had rough- 
ly handled her child, should have killed it " wil- 
fully and designedly." Here the judge opened a 



262 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

back door for her to avoid the punishment of death. 
But now the fear of God had got so much room in 
her heart, that no tampering would do ; no fig- 
leaves could serve her for a cover ; for she knew 
now that this would have been adding sin to sin, 
and to cover herself with a covering, but not of God's 
spirit 5 and therefore she plainly signified to the 
court that indeed she had committed the mischiev- 
ous act intendedly, thereby to hide her shame ; and 
that having sinned thus grievously, and being af- 
fected now with true repentance, she could by no 
means excuse herself, but was willing to undergo 
the punishment the law required ; and, therefore, 
she could but acknowledge herself guilty, since 
otherwise how could she expect forgiveness from 
the Lord ?" This undisguised and free confession 
being spoken with a serious countenance, did so af- 
fect the judge that, tears trickling down his cheeks, 
he sorrowfully said, "Woman ! such a case as this 
I never met with before. . Perhaps you, who are but 
young, and speak so piously, as being struck to the 
heart with repentance, might yet do much good in 
the world ; but now you force me so that, ex officio , 
I must pronounce sentence of death against you, 
since you will admit of no excuse." Standing to 
what she had said, the judge pronounced the sen- 
tence of death ; and when, afterward, she came to 
the place of execution, she made a pathetical speech 
to the people, exhorting the spectators, especially 
those of the young, " to have the fear of God before 
their eyes ; to give heed to his secret reproofs for 
evil, and so not to grieve and resist the good of the 
Lord, which she herself not having timely minded, 
it had made her run on in evil, and thus proceeding 
from wickedness to wickedness, it had brought her 
to this dismal exit. But, since she firmly trusted 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 263 

to God's infinite mercy, nay, surely believed her 
sins, though of a bloody dye, to be washed off by the 
pure blood of Christ, she could contentedly depart 
this life." Thus she preached at the gallows the 
doctrine of theQuakers,and gave heart-melting proofs 
ihat her immortal soul was to enter into Paradise, 
as well as anciently that of the thief on the cross." 
The preceding chapter contains three instances 
©f martyrdom, undergone for the sake of religious 
truth, and attended with that animating publicity 
which is usual on such occasions, particularly when 
the sufferers are persons of a certain rank and emi- 
nence in society. 

But, she who died, as narrated in the story 
given above, for the cause of spontaneous truth, 
and willingly resigned her life, rather than be guilty 
of a lie to save it, though that lie was considered by 
the law of the country, and by the world at large, 
to be no lie at all ; this bright example of what a 
true and lively faith can do for us in an hour of 
strong temptation, was not only an humble, guilty 
woman, but a nameless one also. She was an ob- 
scure, friendless, individual, whose name on earth 
seems to be nowhere recorded; and, probably^no 
strong interest was felt for her disastrous death, 
except by the preacher who converted her, and by 
the judge who condemned her. This afflicted' per- 
son was also well aware that the courage with which 
she met her fate, and died rather than utter a false- 
hood, would not be cheered and honoured by an 
anxious populace, or by the tearful farewells of 
mourning, but admiring, friends ; she also knew 
that her honest avowal would brand her with the odi- 
ous guilt of murdering her child, and yet she per- 
severed in her adherence to the truth ! Therefore, I 
humbly trust that, however inferior she may appear, 



2t>4 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN€f. 

in the eyes of her fellow-mortals, to martyrs of a 
loftier and more important description, this willing 
victim of what she thought her duty, offered as ac- 
ceptable a sacrifice as theirs, in the eyes of her 
Judge and her Redeemer. 

No doubt, as I before observed, the history of 
both public and private life may afford many more 
examples of equal reverence for truth, derived from 
religious motives ; but, as the foregoing instance was 
more immediately before me, I was induced to give 
it as an apt illustration of the precept which I wish 
to enforce. 

The few, and not the many, are called upon to 
earn the honours of public martyrdom, and to shine 
like stars in the firmament of distant days ; and, in 
like manner, few of us are exposed to the danger of 
telling great and wicked falsehoods. But, as it 
is more difficult, perhaps, to bear with fortitude the 
little daily trials of life, than great calamities, be- 
cause we summon up all our spiritual and moral 
strength to resist the latter, but often do not feel it 
to be a necessary duty to bear the former with 
meekness and resignation ; so is it more difficult to 
overcome and resist temptations to every-day lying 
and deceit, than to falsehoods of a worse descrip- 
tion ; since, while these little lies often steal on us 
unawares, and take us unprepared, we know them 
to be so trivial, that they escape notice, and to be so 
tolerated, that even, if detected, they will not incur 
reproof. Still, I must again and again repeat the 
burden of my song, that moral result, which, how- 
ever weakly I may have performed my task, I have 
laboured incessantly, through the whole of my 
work, to draw, and to illustrate ; namely, that this 
little and tolerated lying, as well as great and rep- 
robated falsehood, is wholly inconsistent with the 



CONCLUSION. 265 

character of a serious Christian, and sinful in the 
eyes of the God of Truth ; that, in the daily recur- 
ring temptation to deceive, our only security is to 
lift up our soul, in secret supplication, to be preserv- 
ed faithful in the hour of danger, and always to 
remember, without any qualification of the monitory 
words, that <; lying lips are abomination to the 
Lord." 



CONCLUSIOxN. 

I shall now give a summary of the didactic part 
of these observations on lying, and the principles 
which, with much fearfulness and humility, I have 
ventured to lay down. 

I have stated, that if there be no other true defi- 
nition of lying than an intention to deceive, with- 
holding the truth, with such an intention, partakes 
as much of the nature of falsehood as direct lies ; 
and that, therefore, lies are of two natures, active 
and passive ; or, in other words , direct and in- 
direct. 

That a passive lie is equally as irreconcila- 
ble to moral principles as an active one. 

That the lies of vanity are of an active and 
passive nature ; and that, though we are tempted to 
be guilty of the former, our temptations to the 
latter are stronger still. 

That many, who would shrink with moral dis- 
gust from committing the latter species of falsehood, 
are apt to remain silent when their vanity is gratified, 
without any overt act of deceit on their part ; and 
23 



266 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

are contented to let the flattering representation 
remain uncontradicted. 

That this disingenuous passiveness belongs to 
that common species of falsehood, withholding the 
truth. 

That lying is a common vice, and the habit of it 
so insensibly acquired, that many persons violate 
the truth, without being conscious that it is a sin to 
do so, and even look on dexterity in white lying, 
as it is called, as a thing to be proud of , but, that 
it were well to consider whether, if we allow our- 
selves liberty to lie on trivial occasions, we do not 
weaken our power to resist temptation to utter false- 
hoods which may be dangerous, in their results, to 
our own well being, and that of others. 

That, if we allow ourselves to violate the truth, 
that is, deceive for any purpose whatever, who can 
say where this self-indulgence will submit to be 
bounded ? 

That those who learn to resist the daily tempta- 
tion to tell what are deemed trivial and innocent lies, 
will be better able to withstand allurements to se- 
rious and important deviations from truth. 

That the lies of flattery are, generally 
speaking, not only unprincipled, but offensive. 

That there are few persons with whom it is so 
difficult to keep up the relations of peace and amity 
as flatterers by system and habit. 

That the view taken by the flatterer of the pene- 
tration of the flattered is often erroneous. That 
the really intelligent are usually aware to how much 
praise and admiration they are entitled, be it enco- 
mium on their personal or mental qualifications. 

That the lie of fear springs from the want of 
moral courage ; and that, as thjs defect is by no 
means confined to any class or age, the result of it, 



CONCLUSION. 267 

that fear of man, which prompts to the lie of fear, 
must be universal. 

That some lies, which are thought to be lies of 
benevolence, are not so in reality, but may be re- 
solved into lies of fear, being occasioned by a dread 
of losing favour by speaking the truth, and not by 
real kindness of heart. 

That the daily lying and deceit tolerated in soci- 
ety, and which are generally declared necessary to 
preserve good-will, and avoid offence to the self-love 
of others, are the result of false, not real, benevo- 
lence, — for that those, who practise it the most to 
their acquaintances when present, are only too apt 
to make detracting observations on them when they 
are out of sight. 

That true benevolence would ensure, not destroy, 
the existence of sincerity, as those who cultivate 
the benevolent affections always see the good qual- 
ities of their acquaintance in the strongest light, and 
throw their defects into shade ; that, consequently, 
they need not shrink from speaking truth on all oc- 
casions. That the kindness which prompts to er- 
roneous conduct cannot long continue to bear even 
a remote connection with real benevolence ; that 
unprincipled benevolence soon degenerates into mcc- 
levolence. 

That, if those who possess good sense would use 
it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way of 
spontaneous truth, as they do to justify themselves 
in the practice of falsehood, the difficulty of always 
speaking the truth would in time vanish. 

That the lie of convenience — namely, the 
order to servants to say, " not at home," that is, 
teaching them to lie for our convenience, is, at the 
same time, teaching them to lie for their own, when- 
ever the temptation offers. 



268 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

That those masters and mistresses who show their 
domesticks. that they do not themselves value truth, 
and thus render the consciences of the latter cal- 
lous to its requirings, forfeit their right, and lose 
their chance, of having servants worthy of confi- 
dence, degrade their own characters also in their 
opinions, and incur an awful guilt by endangering 
their servants' well-being here, and hereafter. 

That husbands who employ their wives, and 
wives their husbands, and that pareriis who employ 
their children to utter for them the lies of con- 
venience, have no right to be angry, or surprised if 
their wedded or parental confidence be afterwards 
painfully abused, since they have taught their fami- 
lies the habit of deceit, by encouraging them in 
the practice of what they call innocent white lying. 

That lies of interest are sometimes more 
excusable, and less offensive than others, but are 
disgusting when told by those whom conscious in- 
dependence preserves from any strong temptation to 
violate truth. 

That lies of first-rate malignity, namely, 
lies intended wilfully to destroy the reputation of 
men and women, are less frequent than falsehoods 
of any other description, because the arm of the law 
defends reputations. 

That, notwithstanding, there are many persons, 
worn both in body and mind by the consciousness 
of being the object of calumnies and suspicions 
which they have not the power to combat, who steal 
broken-hearted into their graves, thankful for the 
summons of death, and hoping to find refuge from 
the injustice of their fellow-creatures in the bosom 
of their Saviour. 

That against lies of second-rate malignity 
the law holds out no protection 



CONCLUSION. 269 

That they spring from the spirit of detraction, and 
cannot be exceeded in base and petty treachery. 

That LIES OF REAL BENEVOLENCE, though the 

most amiable and respectable of all lies, are, not- 
withstanding, objectionable, and ought not to be 
told. 

That, to deceive the sick and the dying, is a de- 
reliction of principle which not even benevolence can 
excuse ; since, who shall venture to assert that a 
deliberate and wilful falsehood is justifiable ? 

That, withholding the truth with regard to the 
character of a servant, alias, the passive lie of be- 
nevolence, is a pernicious and reprehensible cus- 
tom ; that, if benevolent to the hired, it is malevo- 
lent to the person hiring, and may be fatal to the per- 
son so favoured. 

That the masters and mistresses who thus per- 
form what they call a benevolent action, at the ex- 
pense of sincerity, often, no doubt, find their sin 
visited on their own heads ; because, if servants 
know that, owing to the lax morality of their em- 
ployers, their faults will not receive their proper pun- 
ishment, that is, disclosure, when they are turned 
away, — one of the most powerful motives to be- 
have well is removed, since, those are not likely to 
abstain from sin, who are sure that they shall sin with 
impunity. 

That it would be real benevolence to tell, 
and not to withhold, the whole truth on such occa- 
sions ; because those who hire servants so errone- 
ously befriended, may, from ignorance of their be- 
setting sins, put temptations in their way to repeat 
their fault ; and may thereby expose them to incur, 
some day or other, the severest penalty of the law. 

That it is wrong, however benevolently meant, to 
23* 



270 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 

conceal the whole extent of a calamity from an 
afflicted person, not only because it shows a distrust 
of the wisdom of the Deity, and implies that he is 
not a fit judge of the proper degree of trial to be in- 
flicted on his creatures, but, because it is a ivithhold- 
ing of the truth with an intention to deceive, and 
that such a practice is not only wrong, but inexpedi- 
ent ; as we may thereby stand between the sufferer 
and the consolation which might have been afforded 
in some cases by the very nature and intensity of the 
blow inflicted ; and lastly, because such conceal- 
ment is seldom ultimately successful, since the truth 
comes out, usually in the end, and when the suffer- 
er is not so well able to bear it. 

That lies of wantonness, are lies which are 
often told for no other motive than to show the 
utterer's total contempt for truth ; and that there is 
no hope for the amendment of such persons, since 
they thus sin from a depraved fondness for speaking, 
and inventing falsehood. 

That dress affords good illustrations of practi- 
cal LIES. 

That if false hair, false bloom, false eyebrows, 
and other artificial aids to the appearance, are so 
well contrived, that they seem palpably intended to 
pass for natural beauties, then do these aids of dress 
partake of the vicious nature of other lying. 

That the medical man who desires his servant 
10 call him out of church, or from a party, when 
he is not wanted, in order to give him the appear- 
ance of the great business which he has not ; and 
the author who makes his publisher put second and 
third edition before a work of which, perhaps, even 
the first is not wholly sold, are also guilty of prac- 
tical LIES. 

That the practical lies most fatal to others, are 



CONCLUSION. 271 

!?hose acted by men who, when in the gulf of bank- 
ruptcy, launch out into increased splendour of living, 
in order to obtain further credit, by inducing an 
opinion that they are rich. 

That another pernicious practical lie is acted by 
boys and girls at school, who employ their school- 
fellows to do exercises for them ; or who them- 
selves do them for others ; that, by this means, 
children become acquainted with the practice of 
deceit as soon as they enter a public school ; and 
thus is counteracted the effect of those principles ot 
spontaneous truth which they may have learnt at 
home. 

That lying is mischievous and impolitic, because 
it destroys confidence, that best charm and only 
cement of society ; and that it is almost impossible 
to believe our acquaintances, or expect to be be- 
lieved ourselves, when we or they have once been 
detected in falsehood. 

That speaking the truth does not imply a ne- 
cessity to wound the feelings of any one. That 
offensive, or home truths, should never be volun- 
teered, though one lays it down as a principle, that 
truth must be spoken when called for. 

That often the temporary wound given by us, on 
principle, to the self-love of others, may be attend- 
ed with lasting benefit to them, and benevolence in 
reality be not wounded, but gratified ; since the 
truly benevolent can always find a balm for the 
wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 

That, were the utterance of spontaneous truth to 
become a general principle of action in society, no 
one would dare to put such questions concerning 
their defects as I have enumerated ; therefore the 
difficulty of always speaking truth would be almost 
annihilated. 



272 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. - 

That those who, in the presence of their ac- 
quaintance, make mortifying observations on their 
personal defects, or wound their self-love in any 
other way, are not actuated by the love of truth, 
but that their sincerity is the result of coarseness of 
mind, and of the mean wish to inflict pain. 

That all human beings are, in their closets, con- 
vinced of the importance of truth to the interests of 
society, though few, comparatively, think the prac- 
tice binding on them, when acting in the busy scene 
of the world. 

That we must wonder still less at the little shame 
attached to white lying, when we see it sanctioned 
in the highest assemblies in the kingdom. 

That, in the heat of political debate, in either 
house of parliament, offence is given and received, 
and the unavoidable consequence is thought to be 
apology, or duel ; that the necessity of either is 
obviated only by lying, the offender being at length 
induced to declare that by black he did not mean 
black, but white, and the offended say, " enough 
— I am satisfied." 

That the supposed necessity of thus making apol- 
ogies, in the language of falsehood, is much to be 
deplored ; and that the language of truth might be 
used with equal effect. 

That, if the offender and offended were married 
men, the former might declare, that he would not, 
for any worldly consideration, run the risk of making 
his own wife a widow, and his own children father- 
less, nor those of any other man ; and that he was 
also withheld by obedience to the divine command, 
" Thou shalt not kill." 

That, though there might be many heroes pres- 
ent on such an occasion, whose heads were bowed 
down with the weight of their laurels, the man who 



CONCLUSION. 273 

could thus speak and act against the bloody custom 
of the world would be a greater hero, in the best 
sense of the word, as he would be made superior to 
the fear of man, by fear of God. 

That some persons say, that they have lied so as 
to deceive, with an air of complacency, as if vain 
of their deceptive art, adding " but it was only a 
white lie, you know ;" as if, therefore, it was no lie 
at all. 

That it is common to hear even the pious and 
the moral assert that a deviation from truth, or a 
withholding of the truth, is sometimes absolutely ne- 
cessary. 

That persons who thus reason, if asked whether, 
while repeating the commandment, " thou shalt not 
steal," they may, nevertheless, pilfer in some small 
degree, would, undoubtedly, answer in the negative ; 
yet, that white lying is as much an infringement of 
the moral law as little pilfering is of the command- 
ment not to steal. 

That I have thought it right to give extracts from 
many powerful writers, in corroboration of my own 
opinion on the subject of lying. 

That, if asked why I have taken so much trouble 
to prove what no one ever doubted, I reply, that I 
have done so in order to force on the attention of 
my readers that not one of these writers mentions 
any allowed exception to the general rule of truth ; 
nid it seems to be their opinion that no mental re- 
servation is to be permitted on special occasions. 

That the principle of truth is an immutable prin- 
ciple, or it is of no use as a guard to morals. 

That it is earnestly to be hoped and desired, that 
the day may come, when it shall be as dishonour- 
able to commit the slightest breach of veracity as to 
pass counterfeit shillings. 



2*74 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

That Dr. Hawkesworth is wrong in saying that 
the liar is universally abandoned and despised ; for, 
although we dismiss the servant whose habit of ly- 
ing offends us, we never refuse to associate with 
the liar of rank and opulence. 

That, though, as he says, the imputation of a lie 
is an insult for which life only can atone, the man 
who would thus fatally resent it does not even re- 
prove the lie of convenience in his wife or child, 
and is often guilty of it himself. 

That the lying order given to a servant entails 
consequences of a mischievous nature ; that it low- 
ers the standard of truth in the person who receives 
it, lowers the persons who give it, and deprives the 
latter of their best claim to their servants' respect ; 
namely, a conviction of their moral superiority. 

That the account given, by Boswell, of Johnson's 
regard to truth, furnishes us with a better argument 
for it than is afforded by the best moral fictions. 

That, if Johnson could always speak the truth, 
others can do the same ; as it does not require his 
force of intellect to enable us to be sincere. 

That, if it be asked what would be gained by al- 
ways speaking the truth ; I answer, that the indi- 
viduals so speaking would acquire the involuntary 
confidence and reverence of their fellow-creatures. 

That the consciousness of truth and ingenuous- 
ness gives a radiance to the countenance, and a 
charm to the manner, which no other quality of 
mind can equally bestow. 

That the contrast to this picture must be familiar 
to the memory of every one. 

That it is a delightful sensation to feel and inspire 
confidence. 

That it is delightful to know that we have friends 



CONCLUSION. 275 

on whom we can always rely for honest counsel and 
ingenuous reproof. 

That it is an ambition worthy of thinking beings 
to endeavour to qualify ourselves, and those whom 
we love, to be such friends as these. 

That if each individual family would resolve to 
avoid every species of falsehood, whether author- 
ized by custom or not, the example would soon 
spread. 

That nothing is impossible to zeal and enterprize. 

That there is a river which, if suffered to flow over 
the impurities of falsehood and dissimulation in the 
world, is powerful enough to wash them all away ; 
since it flows from the fountain of ever-living 

WATERS. 

That the powerful writers, from whom I have 
given extracts, have treated the subject of truth as 
moralists only ; and have, therefore, kept out of 
sight the only sure motive to resist the temptation to 
lie ; namely, obedience to the divine will. 

That the moral man may utter spontaneous truth 
on all occasions ; but, the religious man, if he acts 
consistently, must do so. 

That, both the Old and New Testament abound 
in facts and texts to prove how odious the sin of ly- 
ing is in the sight of the Almighty ; as I have shown> 
in several quotations from Scripture to that effect. 

That, as no person has a right to resent being 
called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
person who indulges in any one species of lie can- 
not declare, with justice, that he deserves not the 
name of liar. 

That the all-powerful Being who has said " as 
is our day, our strength shall be," still lives to hear 



276 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the prayer of all who call on Him, and in the hour 
of temptation will " strengthen them out of Zion." 

That, in all other times of danger, the believer 
supplicates for help, but few persons think of pray- 
ing to be preserved from little lying, though the 
Lord has not revealed to us what species of lying 
he tolerates, and what he reproves. 

That, though I am sure it is not impossible to 
speak the truth always, when persons are powerful- 
ly influenced by religious motives, I admit the ex- 
treme difficulty of it, and have given the conduct 
of some distinguished religious characters as illus- 
trations of the difficulty. 

That other instances have been stated, in order 
to exemplify the power of religious motives on some 
minds to induce undaunted utterance of the truth, 
even when death was the sure consequence. 

That temptations to little lying are far more 
common than temptations to great and important 
lies ; that they are far more difficult to resist, be- 
cause they come upon us daily and unawares, and 
because we know that we may utter white lies with- 
out fear of detection ; and, if detected, without any 
risk of being disgraced by them in the eyes of 
others. 

That, notwithstanding, they are equally, with 
great lies, contrary to the will of God, and that it 
is necessary to be " watchful unto prayer," when 
we are tempted to commit them. 

I conclude this summary by again conjuring my 
readers to reflect that there is no moral difficulty, 
however great, which courage, zeal, and per- 
severance, will not enable them to overcome ; 
and, never, probably, was there a period, in the his- 
tory of man, when those qualities seemed more sue- 



CONCLUSION. 277 

cessfully called into action than at the present 
moment. 

Never was there a better opportunity of establish- 
ing general society on the principles of. truth, than 
that now afforded by the enlightened plan of edu- 
cating the infant population of these United 
Kingdoms. 

There is one common ground on which the most 
sceptical philosopher and the most serious Chris- 
tian meet, and cordially agree ; namely, on the 
doctrine of the omnipotence of motives. They dif- 
fer only on the nature of the motives to be applied 
to human actions ; the one approving of moral mo- 
tives alone, the other advocating the propriety of 
giving religious ones. 

But those motives only can be made to act upon 
the infant mind which it is able to understand ; and 
they are, chiefly, the hope of reward for obedience, 
and the dread of punishment for disobedience. 
But these motives are all-sufficient ; therefore, 
even at the earliest period of life, a love of truth 
and an abhorrence of lying may be inculcated with 
the greatest success. Moreover, habit, that best 
of friends or worst of foes, according to the direc- 
tion given to its power, may form an impregnable 
barrier to defend the pupils thus trained, against 
the allurements of falsehood. 

Children taught to tell the truth from the motive 
of fear and of hope, and from the force of habit, 
will be so well prepared to admit and profit by the 
highest motives to do so, as soon as they can be un- 
folded to their minds, that, when they are removed 
to other schools, as they advance in life, they will 
be found to abhor every description of lying and 
deceit ; and thus the cause of spontaneous truth 
24 



278 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and general education will go forward, progress- 
ing and prospering together. 

Nor can the mere moralist, or the man of the 
world, be blind to the benefit which would accrue 
to them, (were society to be built on the foundation 
of truth aruTof sincerity.) If our servants, a race of 
persons on whom much of our daily comfort de- 
pends, are trained up in habits of truth, domestic 
confidence and security will be the happy result ; 
and we shall no longer hear the common complaint 
of their lies and dishonesty ; and, the parents who 
feel the value of truth in their domestics, will, 
•doubtless, take care to teach their children those 
habits which have had power to raise even their in- 
feriors in the scale of utility and of moral excellence. 
Where are the worldlings who, in such a state of 
society, would venture to persevere in what they 
now deem necessary white lying, when the lady 
may be shamed into truth by the refusal of her 
•waiting-maid to utter the lie required ; and the 
gentleman may learn to feel the meanness of false- 
hood, alias, of the lie or convenience, by the 
respectful, but firm, resistance to utter it of his 
valet-de-chambre ? But, if the minds of the poor 
and the laborious, who must always form the most 
extensive part of the community, are formed in in- 
fancy to the practice of moral virtue, the happi- 
ness, safety, and improvement, of the higher classes 
will, 1 doubt not, be thereby secured. As the lofty 
heads of the pyramids of Egypt were rendered able 
to resist the power of the storm and the whirlwind, 
through successive ages, by the extent of their 
bases, and by the soundness and strength of the 
materials of which they were constructed, so, the 
continued security, and the very existence, per- 
haps, of the higher orders in society, may depend 



CONCLUSION. 279 

on the extended moral teaching and sound princi- 
ples of the lowest orders ; for treachery and con- 
spiracy, with their results, rebellion, and assassina- 
tion, are not likely to be the crimes of those who 
have been taught to practise truth and openness in 
all their dealings, on the ground of moral order, 
and of obedience to the will of god. 

But, it is the bounden duty of the rich and of the 
great to maintain their superiority of mind and mor- 
als, as well as that of wealth and situation. I be- 
seech them to remember that it will always be 
their place to give and not to take example ; and 
they must be careful, in a race of morality, to be 
neither outstripped, nor overtaken by their inferiors. 
They must also believe, in order to render their 
efforts successful, that, although morality without 
religion is, comparatively, weak, yet, when these 
are combined, they are strong enough to overcome 
all obstacles. 
*" Lying is a sin which tempts us on every side, 
but is more to be dreaded when it allures us in the 
shape of white lies ; for against these, as T have 
before observed, we are not on our guard ; and, 
instead of looking on them as enemies we consider 
them as friends. 

Black lies, if I may so call them, are beasts 
and birds of prey, which we rarely see ; and which, 
when seen, we know that we must instantly avoid : 
but white lies approach us in the pleasing shape of 
necessary courtesies and innocent self-defence. 

Finally, I would urge them to remember that, if 
they believe in the records of holy writ, they can 
thence derive sufficient motives to enable them to 
tell spontaneous truth, in defiance of the sneers of 
the world, and of " evil and good report." 

That faith in a life to come, connected with a 



2S0 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

close dependence on divine grace, will give them 
power in this, as well as in other respects, to eman- 
cipate themselves from their own bondage of cor- 
ruption, as well as to promote the purification of 
others. For, Christians possess what Archimedes 
wanted ; they have another sphere on which to fix 
their hold ; and, by that means, can be enabled to 
move, to influence, and to benefit, this present world 
of transitory enjoyments ; a world which is in re- 
ality safe and precious to those alone who " use it, 
without abusing it," and who are ever looking be- 
yond it "to a building of God, a home not made 
with hands, eternal in the heavens." 



THE END- 



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